A NORTHERN POEM
Sunset dreams on fir-tre cones,
Green—the hedge, and brown— the field;
Mossy rifts in weathered stones
Meekly vernal waters yield.
Oh, look up the wooded steep—
God has touched it with his palm;
Piously wild berries weep,
Listening to the grassy psalm.
And I feel no fleshly tie;
And my heart's a springing mead.
Come, ye pilgrims white and shy,
Peck the early wheaten seed.
Tender evening twilight searches
Cottage windows, gabled byres,
And the leaves of slender birches
Glimmer soft as wedding fires.
- Tr. by Avrahm Yarmolinsky.