Nikolay Gumilev — Evening
СтихотворенияHow thick, how wingless an evening!
A sunset like a cracked melon.
You almost want to shove
those limp clouds along.
Slow evenings like this,
coachmen whip their horses to a gallop,
Fishermen tear at the waves with their oars,
woodsmen chop like mad
At huge, bush-headed oaks...
and those who hold in their hands
The universal movement of all things, who keep
all rhythms, past, present, future,
They make poems with wings
and wake the universe from its sluggish sleep.