Innokenty Annensky
Snow

I would love winter, but
Its burden is heavy...
Not even smoke can go from
It into the clouds.

This incising of lines,
This loaded flight,
This beggarly-blue
And tearstained ice!

But I love the snow enfeebled
From blisses beyond the
Clouds — the now sparklingly
White, now lilac snow...

And especially the thawed,
When, opening the heights,
It lies down tired on
The sliding precipice;

Like flocks in the mist
Are the chaste dreams
On the oppressive brink
Of a holocaust of spring.

Translated by R. H. Morrison