Page:Poems, Alexander Pushkin, 1888.djvu/172

166 Every year thus, every day

With death my thought I join

Of coming death the day

I seek among them to divine.

Where will Fortune send me death?

In battle? In wanderings, or on the waves?

Or shall the valley neighboring

Receive my chilled dust?

But tho' the unfeeling body

Can everywhere alike decay,

Still I, my birthland nigh

Would have my body lie.

Let near the entrance to my grave

Cheerful youth be in play engaged,

And let indifferent creation

With beauty shine there eternally.