City

Once, he slept
Down by the Neva dockside. Rough
Breathed out the wind, as summer crept
To autumn. Sombre billows leapt
And foamed and moaned upon the docks
On velvet steps, like one who knocks
At judges’ doors to press his case,
Ignored by them in every place.
He woke, poor creature, to the dark
And drizzle; a sad wind howled, and hark!
The watchmen’s cry out yonder might
Be an echo called across the night…

From Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s