No poet, no artist of any sort, has his complete meaning alone. His significance, his appreciation is the appreciation of his relation to the dead poets and artists. - T.S.Eliot
Slow the moon, embraced by shadow,
Climbs the hilly clouds of night
And upon the cheerless meadow
Sadly pours its pallid light.
Down the road, as white and eerie
As the wintry, boundless lea,
Runs my troika, and the weary
Sleigh-bell jangles drowsily.
In the driver's song unending
Much is there that speaks to me,
Now a plaint, my spirit rending,
Now a reckless gaiety...
All around is snow, and nothing,
Not a light to cheer the eye;
Mileposts rush to meet me, nodding
As they pass indifferent by.
But, my Nina, on the morrow,
By the fire's unsteady blaze,
I will drown my gloom, my sorrow
And my dullness in your gaze.
Let the clock, its passage charted,
Midnight strike, we'll not, my own,
Once the others leave, be parted,
But stay on - stay on alone.
Sad am I... The night encloses
Field and wood... The moon looms wan...
In his seat the driver dozes,
Through the snow the road drags on.