Semyon Nadson,
The Russian Review
(1916)
“ Splendid fanes of bright marbles have crumbled to dust, Lofty mounts with their grandeur are lost in the haze, And my heart bleeds again at each new, cruel thrust, Tears of impotent rage flow, beclouding my gaze. Ah, my muse, she is dead!. . . 'Twas not long her beams bright Did illumine my days, full of loneliness drear, Now the lights are all dark, and the flowers are all sear, And the night, like a grave, gives no promise of light. ”
