Modern Russian Poetry/Work


Here is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accom-
Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on
my heart?
Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,
One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks?
Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,
Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods
of the hearth?

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