So many stones are thrown at me,
They no longer scare.
Fine, now, is the snare,
Among high towers a high tower.
I thank its builders: may
They never need a friend.
Here I can see the sun rise earlier
And see the glory of the day's end.
And often into the window of my room
Fly the winds of a northern sea,
A dove eats wheat from my hands . . .
And the Muse's sunburnt hand
Divinely light and calm
Finishes the unfinished page.

Summer 1914 Slepnyovo

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