Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/196

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How strange, oh, God, as in sleep's euthanasia, Thy earth today. Behind the window, each like an acacia, The poplars sway.

From my small muff my hand withdrawing slightly, I find it dry. And from my furs, as though May touched them lightly, Faint perfumes fly.

And through the night dark troubled dreams are rearing: They choke and cling. How shall I then forbear at last from fearing, Oh, God, thy Spring?