On the Road.

Written by Ivan Turgenev.

Gray is the morning, the morning is misty,
Mournful are grasslands all covered with snow.
Out of thy wish thou wilt get thinkings wispy,
Images, feelings thou’st lost long ago.

Thou wilt remember the passionate speeches,
Glances thou longedst for and keenly desiredst,
Greetings at meetings and sealing of breaches,
Sounds of voices, the voice thou admiredst.

Thou wilt recall that strange smile at the parting,
Lots of the things that are sweet and remote,
While listening to the train wheels soft debating,
Watching the wide sky, while thou’rt on the road.

1843.