Nilson Egor

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Обо мне

An upper chamber in a darkened house,
Where, ere his footsteps reached ripe manhood's brink,
Terror and anguish were his lot to drink, —
I cannot rid the thought nor hold it close;
But dimly dream upon that man alone; —
Now though the autumn clouds most softly pass;
The cricket chides beneath the doorstep stone,
And greener than the season grows the grass.
Nor can I drop my lids nor shade my brows,
But there he stands beside the lifted sash;
And — with a swooning of the heart, I think
Where the black shingles slope to meet the boughs,
And — shattered on the roof like smallest snows —
The tiny petals of the mountain-ash.

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