Редеет облаков... - перевод А. С. Пушкина

The flying ridge of clouds is becoming thinner;
The star sad, the star of this evening!
Your silver light had lit the plains exhausted,
The cliff's black tops, the gulf quiet dozing;
I like your poor light there in heavens:
It had awoken the thoughts before inactive.
I still remember your sunrise, familiar to me,
Above the country, nice with every thing,
Where the poplars slim had risen up in valleys,
Where the gentle myrth is sleeping, as the cypress,
And sweety so waves are rustling at noon of day...
There in the mountains, with hearty thoughts all catched,
I've fallen to the laziness so pensive,
When on the hats the night her shadow was laying -
And there in the dark the girl was searching you,
And telling name to her girl-friends, as a truth.