After the tumult and the blood
Had died, had dried
Silence unmade its history:
A group of mounds; on them
A group of oaks. They spread
Their broad unmindful glories
Over the unheard rumour of those dead
And rustle there, rooted on ruin.
All nature's knowledge
Is to stay unknowing-
Ours, to confess confusion:
Dream-out by her,
Our years are apparitions in their coming-going.
Her random seed
Spread to their fruitless feat, she then
Regathers them
Into that peace all history must feed.
Fyodor Tyutchev
(translated from Russian
by Charles Tomlinson)
YOU ARE READING
Subjects May Vary
PoetryThis is a collection of poems - most of which are not mine - that are some of my favourites. The subjects vary, so please try to keep an open mind, and enjoy.
