by its own delicacy, caressed

more sluggish the snowy hive,
clearer the window’s crystal,

on a chair, a turquoise veil,
thrown there, carelessly, lies.



a tissue, self-intoxicated,
as if it never felt winter’s

touch, experiencing summer’s,

by its own delicacy, caressed:



and, if in icy diamonds

frost is eternally streaming,

here — it’s dragonflies flickering,

blue-eyed, living, and gone.

osip mandelshtam - the stone - translated by a.s. kline