[Carl Copeland]

When I stroll down a busy street,
step in a crowded church, or in
the midst of revels take a seat,
it’s then I let my mind take wing.

The years flit by—so go my thoughts—
and all of us now gathered here
will pass beneath eternal vaults,
and someone’s hour is drawing near.

I see a lonely oak and say:
the forest’s patriarch will stand
long after my forgotten day,
as it outlived our fathers’ span.

When I embrace a precious child,
I softly say: Farewell! Your day
is come, and I must step aside—
your time to bloom as I decay.

Each day, each year I wistfully
see off while trying to devise
in each the anniversary
of my eventual demise.

Will fate send death to me abroad—
in war, at sea, on dusty ways?
or will the valley just beyond
the hill receive my cold remains?

Although unfeeling bones as soon
would molder anywhere as here,
I’d still lie resting in a tomb
not far from places I hold dear.

Around the entrance to the tomb,
let tender life then play and climb,
and let indifferent nature bloom
and with eternal beauty shine.


Edits
S1L2: beside > or in
S1L3: the young and reckless > the midst of revels
S1L4: I let reflections fill my mind. > I let my musing mind take wing. > I let my restless mind take wing. > it’s then I let my mind take wing.
S2L1: will fly > flit by
S4L1: caress a tender > caress a little > embrace a darling > embrace a dear young > embrace a precious
S4L2: time > day
S4L4: decline > decay
S6L2: trails > ways
S8L2: at play then teem, > then play and climb,
S8L3: let nature, in indifference, bloom > and let indifferent nature bloom
S8L4: gleam > shine


Professor Pnin comments on this poem in Nabokov’s novel of the same name:

In a set of eight tetrametric quatrains Pushkin described the morbid habit he always had—wherever he was, whatever he was doing—of dwelling on thoughts of death and of closely inspecting every passing day as he strove to find in its cryptogram a certain “future anniversary”: the day and month that would appear, somewhere, sometime upon his tombstone.
     “‘And where will fate send me,’ imperfective future, ‘death,’” declaimed inspired Pnin, throwing his head back and translating with brave literality, “‘in fight, in travel, or in waves? Or will the neighbouring dale’—dolina, same word, ‘valley’ we would now say—‘accept my refrigerated ashes,’ poussière, ‘cold dust’ perhaps more correct. ‘And though it is indifferent to the insensible body ...’”
     Pnin went on to the end and then, dramatically pointing with the piece of chalk he still held, remarked how carefully Pushkin had noted the day and even the minute of writing down that poem.
     “But,” exclaimed Pnin in triumph, “he died on a quite, quite different day! He died—” The chair back against which Pnin was vigorously leaning emitted an ominous crack, and the class resolved a pardonable tension in loud young laughter.


Crib

If I walk along noisy streets,
enter a crowded church,
sit among mindless/wild youths,
I give myself up to my dreams/thoughts.

I say: the years will rush past,
and however many of us are visible here,
we’ll all descend beneath eternal vaults,
and someone’s hour is already near.

If I gaze at a solitary oak,
I think: the patriarch of the woods
will outlive my forgotten age,
as it outlived the age of [our] fathers.

If I caress a dear child,
I already think: Farewell!
I yield my place to you;
it’s time for me to decay, for you to bloom.

Each day, each year
I’m accustomed to see off with a thought,
trying to divine the anniversary
of my future death among them.

And where will fate send death to me?
In battle, on a journey, amid the waves?
Or will the neighboring valley
receive my frigid ashes/remains?

And though for the unfeeling body
it’s all the same moldering anywhere,
I’d still like to repose
closer to dear parts.

And at the tomb’s entrance
let young life play
and indifferent nature
shine with eternal beauty.


Original

Брожу ли я вдоль улиц шумных,
Вхожу ль во многолюдный храм,
Сижу ль меж юношей безумных,
Я предаюсь моим мечтам.

Я говорю: промчатся годы,
И сколько здесь ни видно нас,
Мы все сойдём под вечны своды —
И чей-нибудь уж близок час.

Гляжу ль на дуб уединенный,
Я мыслю: патриарх лесов
Переживёт мой век забвенный,
Как пережил он век отцов.

Младенца ль милого ласкаю,
Уже я думаю: прости!
Тебе я место уступаю:
Мне время тлеть, тебе цвести.

День каждый, каждую годину
Привык я думой провождать,
Грядущей смерти годовщину
Меж их стараясь угадать.

И где мне смерть пошлёт судьбина?
В бою ли, в странствии, в волнах?
Или соседняя долина
Мой примет охладелый прах?

И хоть бесчувственному телу
Равно повсюду истлевать,
Но ближе к милому пределу
Мне всё б хотелось почивать.

И пусть у гробового входа
Младая будет жизнь играть,
И равнодушная природа
Красою вечною сиять.