Fyodor Tyutchev
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Fyodor Tyutchev 305  Fyodor Tyutchev (1803–73) At the Imperial Village Autumn advancing to the close, That garden draws me: stilled In its neither sleep nor waking, The apparitional twilit white As swanshapes, never breaking The lake’s dull calm, Loom on its glass In a delight of dumbness. Shade settles there On palace porphyry, In the October early evening Climbs Catherine’s stair; And, as the garden darkens like a wood, Star-lit against its deepened ground The past’s gold image Reflects from a still-emerging cupola. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Above, the dissolving clouds Lucent in heat. Glints From its steel and steady mirror Run with the river. Heat Densened each hour, shade Fled to the wood-cool under oaks, And from the fields White in their flowered and sunlit acres The breath of honey. Order perpetual Governs this passing, This changeless change 306 Russian In fieldfare by riverflow. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Neither thought nor threat, But a limp and sullen sleep This night-sky gloom Clouded from every quarter. Only the intermittent flare as Lightnings, deaf-mute demons Converse with one another. And now hangs lit As by a preappointed sign The whole stretch of sky, Fields in the flash, far woods Breaking from dark. They remerge And the dark once more Hushed, listens about them As if it were aware Of a decision taken In the secret convocation At the central height. The Past Tsarskoe selo—site of the imperial palace Place has its undertone. Not all Is sun and surface. There, where across the calm Gold roofs stream in, The lake detains the image: Presence of past, Breath of the celebrated dead. Beneath the sun-gold Lake currents glint . . . . Fyodor Tyutchev 307  Past power, dreaming this trance of consummation, Its sleep unbroken by Voices of swans in passing agitation. Charles Tomlinson, 1959 ...