Alexey Koltzov (1809–1842)

I SHALL saddle a horse,

A swift courser, he,

I shall fly, I shall rush,

As the hawk is keen,

Over fields, over seas,

To a distant land.

I shall overtake there

My young youth again.

I shall make myself spruce

Be a blade again,

I shall make a fine show

For the girls again.

But alas! no road leads

To the past we’ve left,

And the sun will not rise

For us in the west.