For M. Lozinsky

It goes on without end—the day, heavy and amber!
How impossible is grief, how vain the waiting!
And with a silver voice, again the deer
Speaks in the deer-park of the Northern Lights.
And I believe that there is cool snow,
And a blue font for those whose hands are empty,
And a small sledge is being wildly ridden,
Under the ancient chimes of distant bells.

1912

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