I had not tried the wine that ancients made, <br />And had not heard of Ossian’s old tune; <br />So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade, <br />And, in the skies -- the bloody Scottish moon? <br /> <br />And the call-over of a raven with a harp <br />I faintly hear in that silence, full of fright, <br />And, spread by winds, the winter woolen scarves <br />Of knights are flashing in the red moonlight! <br /> <br />I had received the blessing to inherit <br />Another singer’s ever rambling dreams; <br />For kin’s and neighbor’s spiritual merits <br />To have despise we’re absolutely free. <br /> <br />And not a lone treasure, I suppose, <br />Will pass grandchildren and to others fling, <br />Again a scald will ancient songs compose, <br />And, as his own, will again them sing.<br /><br />Osip Emilevich Mandelstam<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-had-not-tried-the-wine-that-ancients-made/
