Fyodor Tyutchev
The Skald`s Harp

Skald-harp, long ago your poet-master
left you to oblivion in this dusty room,
but as soon as the moon, enchanting the gloom,
splashes a ray in your corner,
then your strings perform a magic tune,
like troubled souls in delirious swoon.

When it breathes on you, what life swirls
in your heart as you recall past days?
Memories of nights when voluptuous girls
told old stories, sang sweet lays,
or when, in these gardens still fair and green,
seeking trysts, their light feet tripped unseen?

Translated by Frank Jude