«birth of the Poem»
Ah, how the icy night is silent!
Tsarina of dreams rushes somewhere.
Already for a long time,
a new poem knocks at me.
It must be born in my soul,
and it already commands, «Start writing me!»
But sleeping people do not know.
It is not interesting to them, generally,
that a flower, like a new song,
tomorrow will blossom in the snow.
Tsarina of dreams flies from the golden-haired groom.
In excitement, I await my new poem,
like May, love, a birth of a child.
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