‘Twas snowing. And to the snow,
To cold of the heaven and earth,
The deeper I slept the more grown
Was Chegem tulips' warming blaze.
Rain flogs my face and collar-bones,
a thunderstorm roars over musts.
You thrust upon my flesh and soul,
like tempests upon ships do thrust.
Of hills and woods this world consists,
Of skies that cover all;
It's just a broil of voices midst
A little boy and girl.
And I shall tell you at the end:
farewell, don't pledge self to love, helpless.
I go mad, or just ascend
to the high echelon of madness.
No word about love! But I'm mute it about -
My larynx, long ago, had lost its nightingales.
There're just the fire flames with empty skies around,
No word about love - e'en if the moonlight reigns.
To recollect! It's better than to have.
Just when this trice and one, that's gone to yore,
together merge, like a bell's tongue and cave,
a world receives one sound-poem more.
Has not been heated to the white,
Yet it is whitening with its heaven -
Night o'er Neva. The mind is stiffened
With sadness and the young delight.
How do you make this, o my colleges-comrades?
Having waked up, while dark's moving to light,
you take your pen and open your notes,
and write - and is this quite enough to write?
The coming day was whitened in the dark,
The day, that's come, was much alike a-singing,
And those four - whose sight was wonders bringing -
Those four rowers moved me in a bark.
Oh, trees! You are brothers of mine.
‘Twas dark'ning, but my eyes defined,
For sure - to the heaven, so starry -
That you, for your night rest, have hurried,