translated by Fledermaus, Евгений Сухарников, © 2021
I have outlived my own desires
I now detest my own dreams
My suffering never expires
It is no longer what it seems
Under the storm of the most brutal fate
My flowering wreath wilted away
I languish in a disheartened state
And only for the end, I pray
So is benumbed with tardy cold
As wintry blizzard howls in grief
Stuck on a twig, naked and old
Is shaking last remaining leaf
Russian original as well as other translations of this poem follows
Я пережил свои желанья
Александр Пушкин – Я пережил свои желанья
Я пережил свои желанья,
Я разлюбил свои мечты;
Остались мне одни страданья,
Плоды сердечной пустоты.
Под бурями судьбы жестокой
Увял цветущий мой венец —
Живу печальный, одинокой,
И жду: придет ли мой конец?
Так, поздним хладом пораженный,
Как бури слышен зимний свист,
Один — на ветке обнаженной
Трепещет запоздалый лист!..
1821
In English, translated by John Pollen ( (1855-1923)
I’ve overlived aspirings,
My fancies I disdain;
The fruit of hollow-heartedness,
Sufferings alone remain.
‘Neath cruel storms of Fate
With my crown of bay,
A sad and lonely life I lead,
Waiting my latest day.
Thus, struck by latter cold
While howls the wintry wind,
Trembles upon the naked bough
The last leaf left behind.
In English, translated by Ivan Panin, 1888
ELEGY. IV. 85.
My wishes I have survived,
My ambition I have outgrown!
Left only is my smart,
The fruit of emptiness of heart.
Under the storm of cruel Fate
Faded has my blooming crown!
Sad I live and lonely,
And wait: Is nigh my end?
Thus touched by the belated frost,
When storm’s wintry whistle is heard,
On the branch bare and lone
Trembles the belated leaf.
1821.
This poem was at least twice put to music, first by Michael (Mikhail) Shishkin (1851-1916), below is a period turn-of-the-century recording of the verse by Vera Panina, a legendary singer, and then by Victoria (Viktoria) Filatova.
A period recording of Michael Shiskin’s version, performed by Vera Panina:
Victoria Filatova’s work
Finally, the same piece in German
Auf Deutsch von Eric Boerner
Ich uberlebte meine Wunsche,
Mag meine Traume langst nicht mehr;
Fur mich blieb nur das Leiden ubrig,
Die Frucht des Herzens, hohl und leer.
Im Sturmwind grausigen Geschicks
Ist meines Lorbeers Grun verwelkt –
Ich lebe einsam, ohne Gluck,
Und warte: Ende, kommst du schnell?
So hort, besiegt von spater Kalte,
Wie sturmisch klingt des Winters Pfiff,
Und zittert an dem Zweig verzweifelt
Das letzte Blatt, das ubrig ist!
I find the poem quite sad. Touching, melancholic, and sad. Pushkin wrote it when he was 22.
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