Nikolay Gumilev
Evening

How thick, how wingless an evening!
A sunset like a cracked melon.

You almost want to shove
those limp clouds along.

Slow evenings like this,
coachmen whip their horses to a gallop,

Fishermen tear at the waves with their oars,
woodsmen chop like mad

At huge, bush-headed oaks...
and those who hold in their hands

The universal movement of all things, who keep
all rhythms, past, present, future,

They make poems with wings
and wake the universe from its sluggish sleep.

Translated by Burton Raffel and Alla Burago

(Nikolay Gumilev`s site)