Vyacheslav Ivanov
In Autumn

To A. N. Chebotarevsky

Hilly groves, caved with crimson,
Blue, scowling mountains far away…
In the back-country, on refined thorns,
        Climbs the wild hop.

An errant ray of silvery light…
As in a coffin, the Earth gets colder
And clears off with the exuberant grief of suns…
        The poplars shiver tautly.

Gusts of wind… Ringing silences…
The river runs with white oblivion…
You cast the wispy devil’s guts
        Into the wakeful dreams of reeds.

Translated by Edmund Grinbaldt