And Pushkin’s exile had begun right here,
And Lermontov’s expulsion had been “canceled.”
There is the easy grasses’ scent on highland.
And only once it chanced to me to see it —
Near the lake, where shades of plane-trees hover,
In that doom hour before the evening thrusts,–
The dazzling light of the desirous eyes
Of Tamara’s forever living lover.
