The night is silent, like a disembodied spirit, The warm air is dumb, But as if fleeting, A bell rang. Is this the one that disturbs The distant forest sleep And, swaying, runs Across the night's silence? Or this one, barely noticeable In my flowerbed and during the day, Narrow-bottomed, multicolored, On a stamen under the window? I remember Fet's poems that made him famous, for the pristine poet, for that nature, And those years, and truly I will remember the care for flowers, no...
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