Hush! From what new source springs such a ringing?
The Irtysh is fleeing from its shore!
Seeks in cold waves, whirlpooling and swinging,
Faces of the days that are no more.
From a circle cut in ice, it opens
To the stars its eyes: 'Oh, spring, how long
Will you overlook my praying, hoping?
Will the ice be broken by my song?'
Then the night has muttered to his beard:
— 'A new sun is being forged!' A shiver —
And a star fell from a thread and sheered
Down, to kiss the stirring winter river.