No. 8-9


Nikolai Gumilev 

Translated from the Russian by Alexey Tkachenko  



He that has been buried
Hears a glorious chime,
Smells the whitest lilies
In his dream beyond time.

He that in his grave lies
Sees an endless light
As the wings of Seraphs
Shed their snow-flakes bright.

You are on your death-bed
And your hands are cold.
Do you know what spring will
To your eyes unfold?

By my earnest prayer
Eden pure and true
Granted you forgiveness.
This I swear to you.



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