Innokenty Annensky
The moon

Sunt mihi bis septem...

Those who are stronger than I — try to
Unite them... They are exhausted
And still have not merged: this
Bluish dusk and whitish summit...

I am merging and cannot merge this
Piercing March air with the chilly
Night on the thawing snow in the
Stars scarcely touched by green...

Aren’t you really spellbinding, pearly
One, you who have no need of the rest?

Didn’t your waning separate them,
Yellow-sickle on the burnt-out spot,

You, empty-pouched wanderer of the
Skies, with your ironical musing?..

Translated by R. H. Morrison