It's Time, My Dear, It's Time
Information about the poet and poem
Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837) wrote this poem addressed to his wife Natalie Goncharova in 1834. Pushkin had been given a title “kammerjunker” — a lowly rank in Russia’s Imperial Court, that was typically given to young sons of the noble families just starting their career, and was insulting for the 34 year old poet. As Pushkin mentions in his diary, giving him the title was aimed at keeping him and Natalie in St Petersburg where she would be able to attend balls (Tzar Nikolay I was enchanted with Natalie).
The obligation to be present at official ceremonies at the Imperial Court was a burden to Pushkin, but leaving the position would mean to lose access to the historical archives necessary for the poet's work at that time. He started feeling more and more dissatisfied with his life in the capital and dreaming about sharing a creative seclusion at his country estate Boldino with Natalie.
The poem was never published during the poet's lifetime.
The Original Poem
Летя́т за дня́ми дни, и ка́ждый час уно́сит
Части́чку бытия́, а мы с тобо́й вдвоём
Предполага́ем жить, и глядь — как раз умрём.
На све́те сча́стья нет, но есть поко́й и во́ля.
Давно́ зави́дная мечта́ется мне до́ля —
Давно́, уста́лый раб, замы́слил я побе́г
В оби́тель да́льную трудо́в и чи́стых нег.
A Literal Translation
Days after days fly by, and every hour bears away
A particle of existence, while you and, we two
Anticipate to live and, lo and behold, just then we’ll die.
There is no happiness in the world, but there’s peace and freedom;
For a long time I have dreamed of an enviable lot:
A long time ago I, a weary slave, contemplated an escape
To a faraway abode of work and pure delights.
A More "Poetic" Translation
Day after day flits by, and with each hour there goes
A little bit of life; but meanwhile you and I
Together plan to dwell … yet lo! ’tis then we die.
There is no bliss on earth: there’s peace and freedom, though.
An enviable lot I long have yearned to know:
Long have I, weary slave, been contemplating flight
To a remote abode of work and pure delight.
-translation by V. Nabokov
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