Poem: Translation of Ronsard's "Quand vous serez bien vieille"

“When you are old and spinning by the fire”

When you are old and spinning by the fire

And sucking the last warmth out of its flame,

You’ll hum in a clear voice my poem’s refrain,

And you’ll recall my words and my desire.

And any maid you have will start awake,

hearing in her dreams my voice and name,

And for a moment spring will have come again

and revived the curve of your immortal neck.

I’ll be long underground, my spirit fled,

The scent of myrtle pillowing my head,

And you’ll be heading that way by and by—

Will you regret the chill with which you heard

My love’s complaint and uttered not a word?

Don’t risk the long years of regret, my love, let’s fly.

The original, and a few other possible translations can be found here

As always, comments, criticisms, and so on are always welcome.

Poem: Waking Up in St. Petersburg Dorms

Разбудил меня крик чаяк, и свет яркий сквозь гардини
"Пол шестого! Ну как так можно!"-- застонала моя голова.
Прошлась я по коридору; вид с балкона был как картина--
Свет солнце лиловой медью проливался сквозь облака.

Razbudil menja krik chajak, i svet jarkij skvoz' gardini
"Pol shestogo! Nu kak tak mozhno!"-- zastonala moja golova.
Proshlas' ja po koridoru; vid s balkona byl kak kartina--
Svet solntse lilovoj med'ju prolivalsja skvoz' oblaka.

The cries of gulls woke me, and the light through the drapes
"Half past five! Why me!" moaned my weary head.
I walked down the corridor; the view from the balcony was like a picture
The sunlight, like lavender bronze, was pouring through the clouds.



Comments, criticisms, etc. If you are a better translator than I, please contact me!