The sense of your bidding is unclear: <br />to pray, to curse, is it, to fight <br />you bid me, inscrutable genius? <br />The spring slackens, niggard, meager, <br />and Benozzo Gozzoli's courier <br />dozes in the drowsy thickets. <br /> <br /> Hills are dark with honeyed cloud. <br />Look: I do not touch lithe strings. <br />Your gaze, prophetically flying, <br />is clenched, gushes no winged streams, <br />and beckons by no May road, trying <br />to outstrip Hermes in his flight. <br /> <br /> Hobbled horses do not neigh, <br />Aging warriors sprawl in disarray... <br />Hold your palms open wide! <br />Risen spring is bright, <br />but groves of darkness are not given <br />to leap for joy having leapt from dreams. <br /> <br /> The groom names not the hour, <br />be not guiled to tarry, <br />hark through ice the clarion voice, <br />your flax is drenched with chrism, <br />and, bidding goodbye to numb laze, <br />free, in love, you will rise.<br /><br />Mikhail Alekseevich Kuzmin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-sense-of-your-bidding/
