AZ, I enjoyed the pieces by Fyodor Tyutchev very much. There he was, one of the greatest Russian lyric poets, and I knew nothing about him.
Here's the poem you translated:
The sacred night has scaled the sky and rolled
the day of cheer, the day of graciousness
up and away like a great golden shroud:
a shroud, spread over an abyss.
The outer world is over like a vision,
as Man, a homeless orphan, takes his place
in naked helplessness to stand alone
before the big black of unfathomed space.
He is abandoned to his very self.
His mind is orphaned, thought is nullified.
He plummets through the fissure of his soul
with no support or limit from outside.
As all things of the living and the light
seem but a dream to him, a dream long past,
in the unsolved, the strange, the very night,
he feels a fateful heritage at last.
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Aaron Poochigian
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