It's dark. Not caring where I go, which path I follow,
Past sleepy ponds I stroll.
Of autumn freshness, leaves and fruit the fragrance mellow
Drifts over all.
The garden's almost bare, and through the branches whitely
The stars of evening show.
Dead silence reigns. Murk clothes the paths. It's nighttime.
My steps are slow.
They're slow, but wake the hush… High in the sky's cool
darkness,
A princely diadem,
The icy Pleiades blaze diamond-like and sparkle,
Each one a gem.
Regards,
Ivan Alekseyevich Bunin
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