Not a word will I utter
of what I keep muttering to myself –
not for anything in the world.
Night flowers sleep all summer’s day
but leaves wake as sun sets behind a corpse –
and my heart starts to blossom.
And into my tired breast wafts a moist
breath of evening. Something flutters, is stirred.
But no, not a word.
by Афанасий Афанасьевич Фет (Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet)
a.k.a. Шеншин (Shenshin)
translated by Robert Chandler