Behind the Arbat's ancient alleys' dust,
Lies a most special city – now it's March.
The mezzanine feels lowly, cold, and parch'd,
No few rats roam, but nights are marvelous.
A daytime thaw, some drops, a scorching sun,
A nighttime freeze, yet this air will be clean,
A dawn that so resembles Moscow's sheen,
So distant, ancient. I will sit undone
By unlit hearth, beside the window frame
Of moonlight's flood, and thence will gaze so far
Upon the garden and the seldom star ...
How gentle is the spring night sky! How tame
The springtime moon! And crosses glimmer warm,
Like candles on a country church. Blue sky
Descends through tender branches softly pried;
And like gold helmets forg'd against all storm,
The cupolas at smallest tips will shine ...