Down and away flew the melting snow;
cheeks burned red and glistened.
I had not thought the moon was so small
or the clouds so smokily distant.
Asking for nothing, I’ll go away,
for my number is up, for ever.
I had not thought the moon was so fair
or so feaful up in heaven.
Midnight is near. I’m no one, no one’s,
worn out by the spectre of life,
marvelling at the moonbeam’s smoke
in my treacherous fatherland.
by Иннокентий Фёдорович Анненский (Innokenty Fyodorovich Annensky)
translated by Peter France