Vyacheslav Ivanovich Ivanov (28 February 1866 – 16 July 1949 / Moscow)
Clothed In Beauty
As if chiseled, a fruit-laden branch
Hangs in my garden, asleep - so low...
The trees sleep - and dream? - in moonlight;
And the mystery of their life is near, near...
Even if we cannot grasp it,
The mute language is still intelligible:
They use our beauty to express
How we are one amidst rays and spots of light.
And the tremor of any life's creation
Reveals itself in a lovely form;
And the variance of different things is sweetened
By shared beauty. Multiply it!
And the world will be like this unstirring garden,
Where everything heeds a harmonious silence:
Both stem and flower yield to the dear Earth;
Both flower and stem listen to the Moon.
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