ANNENSKY, Innokenty
Ideal
The dull sounds of gas flares
Above the dead brightness of heads,
The tedium’s black contagion
From deserted tables,
And there, among the sallow-faced,
Harbouring the anguish of the habit,
Trying to solve on the discoloured pages
The odious puzzle of being.
Incantation
Through the tall gates,
From beyond the Okhta marshes,
On the un-travelled track,
Through the un-mown meadow,
Past the cordon of night,
At the chime of Easter bells,
Uninvited,
Un-promised:
Come; sit to the table with me.