Its painless fall deliglits my thirsting spirit.
It comes reborn of nothing, to exist awhile.
It re-appears, a stranger sweet as ever.
Oblivious and tempting in its cold.
I always wait for it — expecting miracles,
I feel it near to me, akin in unity.
It will depart, entrancing, soundless, stealthy;
Its loss does not depress me : as before
I'll wait. ... I love thy touch, my gentle one.
My only one, my longed-for !

And still it falls — soft, powerful, unhurried.
Its conquest filling me with boundless pride.
Of all the mysteries of earth, thou, Snow the wonderful,

It's thee I love, thou Master of my mind !



196 THE RUSSIANS AND THEIR LANGUAGE

There are not many people who are disturbed by
the stillness of a moonlit night, but it invariably
upsets our woman poet. My object being to convey
as clearly as possible the psychological keys of the
Russian speech, I hope the EngUsh reader will allow
me another one or two close translations of her
poems — in spite of their lack of classical EngUsh; I
can follow only the sense and the rhythm — the Hit.
' What is What is lacking in the moonlight,

the moon- ^^ *^^* dim-blue midnight secret ?

light ?' In the stringless, silent music,

In the sparkling shine of desert 1

Gazing at it leaves me longing,

Love in moonlight does not soothe me,

Beams of moonlight sting acutely.
Hurt so coldly, ever ■wronging.
'Midst the rays of shining power

I am powerless and dying. . ..
Oh, if wings could grow from moonlight

That I could go flying — ^flying ! . ..
