It was late eve - the first in May –Translation by James Naughton. The rest of the poem in both English and the original is here.
Eve in May - it was love’s hour.
The turtle-dove’s voice called to love,
Where the pine grove wafting lay.
Love whispered soft the quiet moss;
The blossoming tree lied love’s woe,
The nightingale sang love to the rose,
The rose’s shown by an odorous sigh.
Smooth the lake in shadow’d bushes
Darkly sounded secret pain,
The shore embraced it round and again;
And the bright suns of other worlds
Wandered through the azure zones,
Burning there like tears of love.
The cartoon to the right is by Franťa Bídlo, I think. It's from the 1936 centennial of Mácha's death because if you're a poet your death matters far more than your life. Unlike Lermontov, Mácha's death was a bit more prosaic. He died from cholera the day before he was scheduled to go to Prague and marry his girlfriend. He was also obscenely young when he bit it.
Happy May Day to you!
There's nothing below the fold.