yevgevny onegin

By A. Pushkin

If I walk the noisy streets, Or enter a many
thronged church, Or sit among the wild young generation, I give way to my
thoughts. I say to myself: the years are fleeting, And however many there seem
to be, We must all go under the eternal vault, And some one's hour is already at
hand. When I look at a solitary oak I think: the patriarch of the woods. It will
outlive my forgotten age As it outlived that of my grandfathers'.
If I caress
a young child, Immediately I think: farewell! I will yield my place to you, For
I must fade while your flower blooms.

Each day, every hour I
habitually follow in my thoughts, Trying to guess from their number The year
which brings my death. And where will fate send death to me? In battle, in my
travels, or on the seas? Or will the neighbouring valley Receive my chilled
ashes?
And although to the senseless body It is indifferent wherever it
rots, Yet close to my beloved countryside I still would prefer to rest. And let
it be, beside the grave's vault That young life forever will be playing, And
impartial, indifferent nature Eternally be shining in
beauty.