Plain song of owl
moonlight between cruciform
shadows of hunting.
She sings again
in the sycamore,
her coming quieter
than the wash
behind the wave,
her absence darker
in the leaves’ tabernacle.
Stations of the dark.
A flame floats on oil
in her amber eye.
by Gillian Clarke
from New Poems
My talent is pitiful, my voice not loud,
but I am living; somewhere in the world
someone looks kindly on my life; far off
a distant fellow-man will read my words
and find my being; and, who knows, my soul
will raise an echo in his soul, and I
who found a friend in my own time,
will find a reader in posterity.
by Евгений Абрамович Баратынский (Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky)
translated by Peter France