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141
Andrey Bely

"YOU SIT ON THE BED THERE"

 

(Opening poem of the "Funeral Mass" cycle)



"You sit on the bed there
In the sunset's full crimson,
Pillows crumpled,
Looking distracted,—what
Troubles you?"

"Oh, swept by
Transparent
Gold cataracts,
The fir-tree tops
Loom athwart the sky's blue."

"Orphaned, alone, I shall
Languish,
Through summery
Twilights and Winter nights.
There are new flights, but
Try them I dare not.
Oh, do not die!"

"Oh, above the pines
I float off into æther seas.
Who, there, what, there,
Swathes the sky with whitenesses,
As with vestments of silver?"