As evening nears, a louder, wilder sea
Obtains; more smoke hides a more distant sail.
At dachas nannies let their children flee,
As coldest winter winds from Finland wail.
This sea, all sand and shrubs, now I pursue
To pines of bluish-green; and from cold firs
I tear wax needles, as from conifer,
And turn them into crosses, two by two.
So now we find a bench, straw parasols,
A craggy cliff, thick fog as if a nest,
A crimson-haz'd horizon's waterfall,
That guards the alien, foreboding West.
Above the cliff, the selfsame hammock bears
A languid and capricious maiden's pace;
Beside her sits a crank quite pale of face,
O'er book bent, with pince-nez, in linen chair.
She slumbers, swinging in her gauze net lines,
As he plays her Balmont's poetic lyre,
And darkness cloaks the West through whistling pines,
And fearful clouds avoid horizon's fire.