Innokenty Annensky
Silver Noon

The gleam of silver at noon
Has not yet scattered the mist,
Shot through with wounds of the sun
The mist is still yellower at noon,
Still yellower, still more deathly.
But noon is burning so sternly
That now I can barely endure
The snatches of lilac and scarlet
Of balloons that the eye just makes out
Among scraps of funereal fire.
And why should they all come running,
These joyful, these crazy crowds
Seeking to capture the sun?
And why should the sun caress them,
Airy creatures in a dead space!
But in incense all will grow dim,
The silver of flames and brocade,
The pomp of the undertaker:
For Pierrot and Harlequin
Come with candles to stand at the grave!
Oh white funereal pomp!

Translated by Peter France