On winter pavements I will pound Them down with glistening glass and sun,
Will let the ceiling hear their sound,
Damp corners-read them, one by one.
The attic will repeat my themes And bow to winter with my lines,
And send leapfrogging to the beams Bad luck and oddities and signs.
Snow will not monthly sweep and fall And cover up beginnings, ends.
One day I'll suddenly recall:
The sun exists!
Will see new trends,
Will see-the world is not the same;
Then,
Christmas jackdaw-like will blink And with a frosty day explain What we, my love and I, should think.
The window-halves I'll throw apart,
In muffler from the cold to hide,
And call to children in the yard, 'What century is it outside?' Who trod a trail towards the door,
The hole blocked up with sleet and snow,
The while I smoked with Byron or Was having drinks with Edgar Poe?
While known in Darial or hell Or armoury, as friend,
I dipped Like Lermontov's deep thrill, as well My life in vermouth as my lips.
