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Огонь приносящий
Ты шепчешь: - Спасения нет.
Тихо, в моем кошмаре,
в мороке непостоянства
выходишь тенью под лунный свет
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The View From An Attic Window
Among the high-branching, leafless boughs Above the roof-peaks of the town,
Snowflakes unnumberably come down
I watched out of the attic window The laced sway of family trees,
Intricate genealogies Whose strict, reserved gentility,
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