Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/36

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Sleep I cannot find, nor light: Everywhere is dark and slumber, Only weary tickings number The slow hours of the night. Parca, jabbering, woman-fashion, Sleeping night, without compassion, Life, who stirs like rustling mice, Why encage me in thy vise? Why the whispering insistence,— Art thou but the pale persistence Of a day departed twice? What black failures dost thou reckon? Dost thou prophesy or beckon? I would know whence thou art sprung, I would study thy dark tongue. ..