Innokenty Annensky
The alarm clock

The sorrow of its roulade
Is betrothed to the dawn...
How glad I should be
Not to hear this toy!

Let it be the same tomorrow
As it was yesterday...
Though louder at first, its
Game continues more evenly...

But now, already not reading
The long-hateful notes,
The golden comb rings.
And does not sing...

Clutching at the nails, all
Made from unconnected phrases,
The tiresome story - this
Stammering delirium

About someone’s shortage —
Seeks in vain for an end...
Importunate lisping of
Grief of unarrived years.

Where there are neither tears of
Parting nor freezing of skies,
Where the heart is a meter of
Torments, a machine for miracles...

And tediously unwinding the
Spring for half an hour, where
There is hidden a ludicrous
And superfluous Beauty.

Translated by R. H. Morrison