THE SUMMER GARDEN by ANNA ADREYEVNA GORENKO

I long for the roses, the roses that loom
Before me in all of their tenderest bloom;

And full of a yearning that nothing can still,
I long for the garden with cast iron grille.

Its statues, to which in my dreams I have clung,
Its time-darkened statues remember me young.

While I see them now as I saw them the day
The Neva swirled around them, rebellious and grey.

The garden's great limes shed a fragrance, and rise
Like stately old monarchs way up to the skies.

Whenever I passed them, or, pausing, came near,
The creaking of mastheads would fall on my ear.

Not far from the limes, through the ages a swan,
Alone on the pond, floats impassively on.

It floats 'thout a sound, very solemn and slow,
And nods at its twin in the waters below.

The garden hoards deep in its bosom the tread
Of those that are living and those that are dead;

It treasures the steps without number or end
Of friend and of foe, of foe and of friend.

The shades of the past walk the well-trodden lane
From gateway to palace, to gateway again;

They stroll down the paths, and in wonder they gaze
At fountain, at swan, at the old granite vase.

The nights that with day so enchantingly blend
My own Northern nights on the garden descend.

They speak to the listening heavens above,
They speak of a secret and wonderful love.

Soft, luminous mists round the trees gently curl,
Soft mists of the colour of jasper and pearl.

The garden lies motionless, bathed in their glow,
And whence comes the light none may fathom or know.

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

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