YEGOR
“What shall I write?” said Yegor.—Tchekov.
“WHAT shall I write?” said Yegor;
“Of the bright-plumed bird that sings
Hovering on the fringes of the forest,
Where leafy dreams are grown,
And thoughts go with silent flutterings,
Like moths by a dark wind blown?”
“Oh, write of those quiet women,
Beautiful, slim and pale,
Whose bodies glimmer under cool green waters,
Whose hands like lilies float
Tangled in the heavy purple veil
Of hair on their breast and throat.”
“Or write of swans and princes
Carved out of marble clouds,
Of the flowers that wither upon distant mountains,
Grey-pencilled in the brain;
Of fiercely hurrying night-born crowds
By the first swift sun-ray slain.”
“Nay, I will sing,” said Yegor,
“Of stranger things than these,
Of a girl I met in the fresh of morning,
A laughing, slender flame;
Of the slow stream’s song and the chant of bees,
In a land without a name.”