Afanasy Fet

To sighs of morning air, that froze,-
(With her lips opened for a say),  
How curiously has smiled the rose
On a September fleeting day!

And how has she ever dared
To greet, with air of springy queens,
The single blue-tit, in the bare
Shrubs fleshing in the orb of wings; 

To bloom with steadfast dream that later,
Just leaving her cold bed in rest,
She’ll cling, the last and dissipated,  
To a young hostess’s charming breast!


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, March, 2001