Posted by: W. E. Poplaski | April 13, 2009


by Fyodor Tyutchev (1803 – 1873).




Soft the dove-hued shadows mingle,

Color fades, sound droops to sleep.

Life and motion melt to darkness

Swaying murmurs far and deep.

But the night moth’s languid flitting                       5

Stirs the air invisibly:

Oh, the hour of wordless longing;

I in all, and all in me,


Twilight—tranquil, brooding twilight,

Course through me, serene and smooth;             10

Quiet, languid, fragrant twilight,

Flood all depths, all sorrows soothe,

Every sense in dark and cooling

Self-forgetfulness immerse,—

Grant that I may taste extinction                           15

In the dreaming universe.


(transl. by Avrahm Yarmolinsky and Cecil Cowdrey)



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