Ivan Aivazovsky
“Winter Landscape,” 1876

How melancholy! Once again, by morning,
The end of the avenue has vanished in the haze;
Once again, silver serpents creep
Across the snowdrifts.

Not a patch of blue in the sky;
The steppe lies smooth and white.
Only a raven, battling the storm,
Beats its wings with weary force.

And still, no dawn breaks in the soul;
The same cold settles there as all around.
Thought grows drowsy, sluggish,
Above the work that slowly dies.

Yet hope still smolders in the heart
That perhaps, by chance,
The soul may come alive again
And see its native land once more—

Where storms pass by,
Where passionate thought is clear,
And spring and beauty bloom,
Visible only to the initiated.

Afanasiy Fet

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