Pushkin, "Зимний вечер"

A work ("Winter evening") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

A stormy haze has cloaked the skies,     
In swirling snow it beats and throbs; 
It'll howl and wail, a beast abroad,  
And softly weep just like a child.     
Like fresh-dried straw in sudden pain,    
Upon the feeble roof it'll crack,    
As late-come travelers might rap               
Upon our window's frozen stain.               

Our aged hovel, dark and plain,           
Shall wait in sadness 'til death nears.            
Well then, my old, my sweet, my dear,        
Why sitt'st thou silent by that pane?                       
Or has the storm engaged thy mind, 
My friend, and drowned thy dreams in stone?  
Or dost thou sleep beneath the drone 
Of thine own spindle and its bind?  

Let's drink, dear friend, and never stop,  
From my poor youth forlorn I part;                 
Let's drink from woe, and where's my cup? 
Much gladder soon will be thy heart.     
Sing first a titmouse song or two,            
Of quiet life beyond the sea;          
Sing then a water girl's sweet glee,                 
That lass whose pails each morn ring true.

A stormy haze has cloaked the skies,
In swirling snow it beats and throbs; 
It'll howl and wail, a beast abroad,
Then softly weep just like a child.
Let's drink, dear friend, and never stop,
From my poor youth forlorn I part; 
Let's drink from woe, and where's my cup?
Much gladder soon will be my heart.