In the hearts of men I have noticed a chill, no small one; of loving ardour I have long seen none among the Berendeys

In the hearts of men I have noticed a chill,
No small one; of loving ardour
I have long seen none among the Berendeys.
The service of beauty has vanished from them;
In the young I do not see glances
Moistened with bewitching passion;
I do not see pensive maidens, sighing
Deeply. In their languorous little eyes
There is no lofty longing of love,
But quite other passions show themselves:
Vanity, envy of other women's finery,
And the rest. Among the married the cooling
Is more noticeable still: at their wives, beauties
Wondrous, with falcon eyes,
At the splendid swan-white
Of their supple shoulders, the Berendey husbands,
Drowsy, gaze with indifference.
Methinks I... ah, old age, old age! Where are you,
Merry years gone by
Of hot feelings and frequent infatuations?
Wondrous deeds did the sickness of love
Work in my soul: both kind and tender
Was then the happy Berendey,
And ready to receive anyone into his arms
Held open. Now I am old and grey,
And yet I do not understand how one can
Be cold, remain passionless
At the sight of rosy, full-bosomed wives.
But let us not turn aside,
Let us return to what went before. And the wives!
One cannot say that they have lost altogether
Their warm attachment to their husbands,
And yet conjugal fidelity
Has lost a little, so to speak,
Of its unshakeability and its certainty.
In short, my friend, the chill of the heart
Is everywhere: hearts have grown cold,
And there you have the riddle of our misfortunes
And of the frost: for the cold of our feelings
Yarilo the Sun is angry with us
And avenges himself with frost. Is that clear?