Oh, my friends, only verse is the first of all us,
First of me, first of time in its triumphal stroll,
First of first love, of first blades of first rising grass,
First of first snowflakes, and, at last, - first of all.

Our souls are whitening whiter than snow;
A new day is beginning its wonderful roll;
And the poetry's coming a sunrise before,
First of Svetitshovely, and - first, first of all.

Why are you, my sweet town, so poor in your love?
I am waiting from you just the last garland's fall,
And from my lips the first incantation is moved:
Life and Death… and the Poetry - first of them all!