Neither by cart nor boat
Could you have got here.
On rotten snow
The deep water;
Farmsteads marooned and
Ah! that morose
Soul, that Robinson,
Is so close.
How often can
He inspect sledge and skis,
Return to the divan
To sit and wait for me ?
And his short spur grinds
Sheer through the vile Rug.
Now mirrors learn
Not to expect smiles.


Бібліотека ім. Анни Ахматової >> Твори >> Переклади >> Збірки віршів (англ. мова)

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