Classic Poem

IN MEMORY OF PÚSHKIN

What does the silent wood
Dream of so pensively?
What is the sorrow that
Rides in its mystery?

Why dost thou, Knightly One,
Under its charm's spell,
Head undefended
Hold 'gainst the wind-stroke, —

Standing there shamedly
Letting the storm-clouds
As they pass momently
Burst on thee savagely?

Thy helmet of green leaves
Bound fastly together
Is whirled from thee far off
And scattered to dust;

Thy boughs, as a mantle falls,
Lie all around thee;
Thou standest ashamedly,
Forced to submit thee.

Where hath vanished now
Speech that was mighty,
Strength that was prouder than
All a king's bravery?

A night there hath been for thee,
A calm night within which
Thou heardest the nightingale's
Deluge of song —

A day there hath been for thee
Triumphant, forgetless —
A friend and an enemy
Sought thy cool freshness;

'T was late in the evening,
And loud blew the storm-blast
Of him that was speaking
Unto thy detractor.

His wrath drove the clouds off
That round thee had gathered,
His love clung around thee
Like wind-gusts, but warmer.

Thou said'st to the other,
With voice that changed loudly,
" Go, fall back beyond me!
Go, leave me in peace! "

That voice of his dizzied,
As tone on tone sounded;
Thy very depths trembled,
Their stoutest trunks reeling.

Then, startled from silence,
To life thou awakest;
A whistling of tempest
Re-echoed throughout thee;

'T is the cry of the wood-sprite,
A witch's note shrilling,
Until the loud rumble
Is borne away seaward.

Where now all thy glory
Of verdure and leaf?
Thou 'st put on dark clothing
Of rain-mist and grief;

Wild art thou and silent,
But, when the wind quickens,
Thy plaint sadly peals out
For him lost untimely.

And so, thou dark forest,
Life-long hast thou harassed
The Knightly, the Noble,
To combat for thee.

Against thee prevailed not
Those stronger than thou art;
Life's autumn in him, though,
Seemed cruelly short.

The woods know in dreamland
That forces of evil
Their malice did spend on
Who least had deserved it:

From off Knightly shoulders
A head had been struck —
Not by a hero's hand,
But by a recreant.