Ivan Bunin
Rhythm

In room next door, all swathed in empty murk,
The clock first wheezed, then struck its twelve long beats,
And, taking turns, each second sans surcease,
Went pounding on to where death’s angels lurk,

Then (precious interval) they called a sudden halt,
Before resuming coining golden time.
I lay in thrall to strivings-on sublime,
While rapt in rhythmic dreamland’s pulsing vault.

With eyes wide open I at brightness peer,
I harken to the pounding of my heart,
And to the measured beat I’ve lent this art,
And to the song of planets’ whirl so drear.

All’s aimless flight and rhythm’s stop and start!
But dread the day of stasis, when iambs disappear. 

Translated by U. R. Bowie