We shall leave soon the sub lunar world to become a legend in the end. Goths or Huns – it’s all the same for me, will be settled on this dear land.
Careless redbreast will so sweetly sing, in a wood a brook will sweetly ring. Much of being will be gone for ever, much will stay for long, as mountain ridge.
Here all will hold out as it was, all, that’s seen: this forest, river, sky, also, this enchanting heavenly sun, also, these dark storm clouds, going by.
Don’t for tell the fate of other times, don’t be sick at heart at future’s might. Listen, how the wind of steppes and wormwoods Speaks the Russian language with delight.