Innokenty Annensky
Mirages

First the blue of noon’s flames,
Then the scarlet of daybreak’s
Flames; am I tired of the clear-cut
Lines, is the sun itself tired?

But through the dark-leafed canopy
I await another sun, the
Color of the golden hollyhock.
Or of the rose and the gold ducat.

It will be so pleasant to
The eyes to sink in green nets,
And then to kindle colored
Spots on the dark maples.

Even if the lights of the mirage’s wheeling
Should be extinguished in a moment...
Even if I am the joy of reflections.
Are you not also the same, poets?

Translated by R. H. Morrison