Here, At A Meagre Earth


Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

Here, at a meagre earth, despondent

And listless stare the dull grey skies,

And, as if plunged in leaden slumber,

A eerie nature moveless lies.

Alone the few pale birches, gleaming

Mid greyish moss and stubby brush,

Like visions born of fevered dreaming

Disrupt the lifeless, eerie hush.


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