Translation by Daniel Weissbort
I do not regret, complain, or weep,
All passes, like smoke off the white apple trees.
Autumn’s gold has me in its withering grip.
I shall never be young again.
My heart has felt the chill,
It no longer beats as it once did.
The birch woods cotton print
No more tempts me to roam barefoot.
Spirit of wandering, less and less
Do you stir my lips’ flame.
Oh, my lost freshness, storminess
Of eye, passion’s flood time.
Oh life, do my desires
Grow tamer, or was it all a dream?
As though, in spring’s echoing early hours,
I had galloped by on a pink steed.
We are all mortal. Silently
The maples spill the copper of their leaves.
May you be blessed for evermore
That you came—to flourish and to die.
Translation by Kristina Grinenko
No regrets, no cries, no pain will ever
Touch my heart like blossoms touch a tree
Withering with autumn, I will never
Be the young man that I used to be
You, my heart, are slowing down already
As you’re freezing inch by inch inside
Barefooted, wild me — how upsetting! —
Won’t be running in the countryside
Wanderlust! my passion and my nature,
You don’t make me tremble with delight
Like you used to. Now I lost my features
Laughing eyes and feelings running wild
I don’t feel like having plans, desires
Did I have a life or did I dream?
I was merely chasing early sunrise
Rapid ride at dawn, that’s what it seemed.
We are mortal, we were born to perish
Copper leaves are falling with no sound
Once it came to blossom, to be cherished —
Blessed, returning to the silent ground.
Translation by Alec Vagapov
I do not regret, and I do not shed tears,
All, like haze off apple-trees, must pass.
Turning gold, I’m fading, it appears,
I will not be young again, alas.
Having got to know the touch of coolness
I will not feel, as before, so good.
And the land of birch trees, – oh my goodness!-
Cannot make me wander barefoot.
Vagrant’s spirit! You do not so often
Stir the fire of my lips these days.
Oh my freshness, that begins to soften!
Oh my lost emotions, vehement gaze!
Presently I do not feel a yearning,
Oh, my life! Have I been sleeping fast?
Well, it feels like early in the morning
On a rosy horse I’ve galloped past.
We are all to perish, hoping for some favour,
Copper leaves flow slowly down and sway…
May you be redeemed and blessed for ever,
You who came to bloom and pass away…
No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow,
Blossom blows away, a song is sung.
Overcome by autumn gold, tomorrow
I myself shall be no longer young.
You’ll not throb, heart, as before, but tremble,
Feeling chills that you have not yet known.
In bare feet you shall no more be tempted
Through the birch-print countryside to roam.
Roving spirit, ever now less often
Do you rouse a flame upon my lips.
Freshness I have lost, keen looks forgotten,
Feelings running at full flood I miss.
I’m austerer now in my desiring.
Life, were you real, or of fancy born?
It’s as if in spring I’ve been out riding
On a pink horse in the vibrant dawn.
In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide…
Ever blest was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.
Translation by Peter Tempest
No regret I feel, no pain, no sorrow,
Blossom blows away, a song is sung.
Overcome by autumn gold, tomorrow
I myself shall be no longer young.
You’ll not throb, heart, as before, but tremble,
Feeling chills that you have not yet known.
In bare feet you shall no more be tempted
Through the birch-print countryside to roam.
Roving spirit, ever now less often
Do you rouse a flame upon my lips.
Freshness I have lost, keen looks forgotten,
Feelings running at full flood I miss.
I’m austerer now in my desiring.
Life, were you real, or of fancy born?
It’s as if in spring I’ve been out riding
On a pink horse in the vibrant dawn.
In this world of ours we all are mortal,
Copper leaves from maples gently slide…
Ever blest was I to be accorded
Time for blossoming before I died.
Translation by Anton Yakovlev
I don’t regret, I don’t call, I don’t cry.
All will pass like smoke from white apple trees.
Overcome with the gold of wilting,
I won’t be young anymore.
Touched with cold, you will no longer
Beat in the same way, heart,
And the land of birch chintz
Won’t tempt me to gallivant barefoot.
Nomadic spirit! Less and less
You stoke the flame of my lips.
O my lost freshness,
Mayhem of eyes and deluge of feelings!
These days I’m stingier in my desires,
My life — or did I dream you?
I might as well have galloped on a pink steed
On a sonorous early spring morning.
All of us, all of us will perish;
Quietly, copper leaves pour from maples…
Therefore, blessed be, forever,
Everything that’s come to bloom and to die.
Translation by Geoffrey Thurley
I will not weep, regret or scold.
All things pass, like smoke from the apple wood.
Consumed now by withering’s gold,
My youth has passed away for good.
And you shall beat like that no more
O heart, caught in the grip of cold.
Nor will the birch-tree country lure
My bare feet wandering as of old.
Ah, wanderlust, rarely, rarely
You agitate my mouths’ flame now.
And oh, my squandered innocence,
The bright eye and the fevered brow!
A miser now with my desires,
O life, — or did I dream of you?
As if through early spring-time fires
On a pink horse I galloped through.
We shall all perish, and the bronze
Fades silently from maple-leaves.
Then let us feel forever blessed,
Just that we chanced to flower, and died.
The Original
Не жалею, не зову, не плачу,
Всё пройдёт, как с белых яблонь дым.
Увяданья золотом охваченный,
Я не буду больше молодым.
Ты теперь не так уж будешь биться,
Сердце, тронутое холодком,
И страна берёзового ситца
Не заманит шляться босиком.
Дух бродяжий, ты всё реже, реже
Расшевеливаешь пламень уст.
О моя утраченная свежесть,
Буйство глаз и половодье чувств.
Я теперь скупее стал в желаньях,
Жизнь моя, иль ты приснилась мне?
Словно я весенней гулкой ранью
Проскакал на розовом коне.
Все мы, все мы в этом мире тленны,
Тихо льётся с клёнов листьев медь…
Будь же ты вовек благословенно,
Что пришло процвесть и умереть.
1921
