Vladislav Khodasevich
Morning

Too much, I can no longer look through
        The window there!
Astringent, deathly, bitter preview —
        What holds my stare?

Resounds on single note: “To parting
        You are condemned!”
Our mapled lane is gold-soft turning
        As leaves descend.

Of voice or clatter there is neither —
        They’re far off yet…
But all the same it frightens either,
        Or prompts regret.

Translated by Rupert Moreton