I know her, her bitter silence, <br />Her tiredness of her words and cries, <br />Lives in the secret changing brightness <br />Of widened pupils of her eyes. <br /> <br />Her heart is opened with craving <br />Only to music of the verse, <br />Before the life of joy and playing, <br />She stands aloof and won’t converse. <br /> <br />Her steps aren’t heard or ever hurried: <br />They’re quiet, oddly smooth and fine, <br />She can’t be called a beauty, starry, <br />But keeps all happiness of mine. <br /> <br />And, if I might be selfish ever, <br />Or brave and proud, as I could – <br />I’ll learn the pain, so sweet and clever, <br />In her delirious, dreamy mood. <br /> <br />A source of light in pine and sadness, -- <br />She carries lightning in her hands, <br />Her dreams are clear, as clear the shadows <br />On flaming paradise’s sands.<br /><br />Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/she-9/
