Afanasy Fet
A wondrous Moscow day in May...

A wondrous Moscow day in May,
Each cross on church aglitter,
Outside the swallows roundelay,
Their gurgle-chirp and twitter.

By window seated in love’s sway,
My young soul sick, besotted,
The belfies’ bee-buzz far away
The air with droning slarted.

Then suddenly came one more sound,
Harmonic, distant, soulful,
I sensed the core of me resound
With music sweet and doleful.

Drew near a marching, surging choir,
I felt the sounds my soul engrave
With blend of heaven’s blessèd fire
And dire corruption of the grave.

The surging choir sang on and marched,
Behind it, hatless, trudged along
Black line of mourners, bleak, soul-parched,
But pious, fortified by song.

The choir went by, I watched it go,
And next in line, to death in thrall,
Behind the songs, the mourning flow,
A coffin passed, rose-colored, small.

 A freshet-breeze arose just then,
Puffed up the pall on coffin’s top,
As if that young soul breathed, “Amen,”
Respired out its last full stop.

The gleam of spring, the vernal hum,
The flow of prayers, the soothing tune,
All life spread wide its winged humdrum
O’er valediction’s murk and gloom.

Behind the coffin walked the mother,
She stumbled as she wailed her plaint,
But I perceived all pain as other;
My heart felt light, void of constraint.

Translated by U. R. Bowie