You are comely, admired by many
So many. You and I, that evening,
Sit snug at your window, watching
The street from your attic room.

There, lamps like butterflies flicker
In the chill of morning rays.
I speak to you softly-of matters
Still at rest in far-away time.

We dream we are bound together
By a feeling of timid devotion
To a mystery that holds our city
On the shores of the boundless Neva.

We hear, far among dark copses,
In the silvery evening of spring,
The nightingales trill and whistle
Triumphant in revels of song.

The song of each singer, the frenzy
Of tremulous chirping and trilling,
Awakens unrest and delight
In the depths of spell-bound groves.

And Night, like a barefoot pilgrim,
Secretly creeps by the fences,
Trailing behind her wraith
Of our words from the window-sill.

In the cadence of echoing words
Overheard, in the gardens about
The apple and cherry tree branches
In shining white blossoms appear.

Like luminous phantoms the trees
Come thronging out on the highway-
To wave their farewell to Night
That knows what is fated to be.