Igor Severyanin (Pseud. of Igor Lotarev)

LACE and roses in the forest morning shine,

Shrewdly the small spider climbs his cobweb line.

Dews are diamonding and blooming faery-bright.

What a golden air! What beauty! Oh, what light!

It is good to wander through the dawn-shot rye,

Good to see a bird, a toad, a dragon-fly;

Hear the sleepy crowing of the noisy cock,

And to laugh at echo, and to hear her mock.

Ah, I love in vain my morning voice to hurl,

Ah, off in the birches, but to glimpse a girl,

Glimpse, and leaning on the tangled fence, to chase

Dawn’s unwilling shadows from her morning face.

Ah, to wake her from her half-surrendered sleep,

Tell her of my new-sprung dreams, that lift and leap,

Hug her trembling breasts that press against my heart,

Stir the morning in her, hear its pulses start.