And once again the enormous wave –
And the eyelashes go asleep…
Oh, my nice body! My ashes
Of the lightest bird, positively!
What I was doing in the mist of days?
I was waiting and singing…
Such a many sigh was in her there,
And body – such a little.
And her dozing was unhuman also,
Though at least – real.
And there was something in her – both
From angel and from eagle.
And she is sleeping, but the choir
Is luring her to Edem’s gardens.
As if by songs a Demon’s not quieted
Fallen asleep for the other time!
…..
Hours, years, centuries. – Nothing,
Either from us, or from our rooms.
And here is the monument, bent down –
Nobody could recall it later, by truth.
The sweep stick is out of use for long,
And the nettle thickets, flattering,
Are leaning against the Muse of Tsarskoye Selo,
Where they were grown up in plenty.
3 June 1916
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