Through wavy fogs
The moon wades,
On the sad meadows
She pours sadly light it.
On the way to winter, boring
The troika of the greyhound runs,
Bells are monotonous
Tremblingly thundering.
Something is heard native
In the long songs of the coachman:
That is an outrageous thing,
That heartfelt melancholy ...
No fire, no black hut ...
Winters and snow ... Meeting me
Only the miles are striped
There are only one.
Boring, sad ... Tomorrow, Nina,
Tomorrow, back to the cute,
I'll forget by the fire,
I'll look not looking.
Sounds clockwise
He will make his circle of measure,
And, by boring removing,
Midnight will not separate us.
Sad, Nina: my path is boring,
The coachman fell asleep,
The bell is monotonous,
The moon face is fogged.
1826
Disclaimer: I just found these in my library. I do not have the rights to them,
I just them and decided to share them with you.
