I cut a stick of oak
Under the gentle whisper of blizzard.
Clothing poor and rude,
ABOUT, how unworthy friend!
but I find, and the pauper, way,
come outside, frosty sun!
Probrozhu all day, love of God,
Postuchus evening in okontse…
And open white hand
A secret door in front of me
young, with gold braid,
With a clear, open soul.
Moon and stars in braids…
"Inputs, my prince Privetnoye…»
And poor oak staff
Lighten up slezoj samocvetnoj…
25 Martha 1903. Annunciation
