Stormy clouds delirious straying,
Showers of snowflakes whirling white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning—­
Sad the heavens, sad the night! 
Sudden halt the weary horses,
Silent too the sleighbells whirr—­
Look!  What crouches on the ground there? 
“Wolf,—­or shrub,—­I know not, Sir.”

How the wind’s brood rage and whimper! 
Scenting, blow the triple team;
See!  One hops here!  Forward Driver! 
How his eyes with evil gleam! 
Scarce controllable the horses,
How the harness bells resound! 
Look!  With what a sneering grimace
Now the spirit band surround!

In an endless long procession,
Formless, countless of their kind
Circle us in flying coveys
Like the leaves in Autumn wind. 
Now in ghastly silence deathly,
Now with shrilling elfin cry—­
Is it some mad dance of bridal,
Or a death march passing by?

Stormy clouds delirious straying
Showers of snowflakes whirling white,
And the pallid moonbeams waning—­
Sad the heavens, sad the night! 
Cloudward course the evil spirits
In unceasing phantom bands,
And their moaning and bewailing
Grip my heart with icy hands!

Pushkin.

UNDER A PORTRAIT OF JUKOWSKY

The charm and sweetness of his magic verse
   Will mock the envious years for centuries! 
Since youth, on hearing them, for glory burns,
   The wordless sorrow comfort in them sees,
And careless joy to wistful musing turns.

Pushkin.

Jukowsky was a Russian poet.

THE VISION

I remember a marvellous instant,
Unto me bending down from above,
Thy radiant vision appearing
As an angel of beauty and love. 
’Mid the torments of desperate sadness,
In the torture of bondage and sighs,
To me rang thy voice so beloved—­
And I dreamed thy miraculous eyes. 
But the years rolled along—­and life’s tempests
My illusions, my youth overcame,
I forgot that sweet voice full of music—­
And thy glance like a heavenly flame. 
In the covert and grief of my exile,
The days stretched unchanged in their flight,
Bereft inspiration or power,
Bereft both of love and of light. 
To my soul now approaches awakening,
To me thou art come from above,
As a radiant and wonderful vision—­
As an angel of beauty and love. 
As before my heart throbs with emotion,
Life looks to me worthy and bright,
And I feel inspiration and power—­
And again love and tears and the light!

Pushkin.

I LOVED THEE

I loved thee; and perchance until this moment
Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! 
Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!