At Home
It's all so familiar and clear,
My eye's accustomed to every turn;
I'm not mistaken- I'm at home;
The wallpaper flowers, the chains of books...
I don't disturb yesterday's ashes -
The fire here has long gone cold.
Like a snake surveying its molted skin,
I gaze upon what I was.
Though many hymns remain unsung
And many blessings unbestowed,
I sense the glint of a different world,
A chance for new perfection!
I am called to unknown mountain peaks
By the chorus of spring,
And these letters from a woman
Lie in a cold, lifeless pile!
Dewdrops shine like eyes in the sun,
As if everything were splashed with silver...
My staff awaits me at the door!
I'm coming! I'm coming alone!
poem by Valery Yaklovich Bryusov
Added by Poetry Lover
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