I hid my heart from you

As if I had hurled it into the Neva …

Wingless and domesticated,

I live here in your home.

Only … at night I hear creaking.

What’s there—in the strange gloom?

The Sheremetev lindens …

The roll call of the spirits of the house …

Approaching cautiously,

Like gurgling water,

Misfortune’s black whisper

Nestles warmly to my ear—

And murmurs, as if this were

Its business for the night:

“You wanted comfort,

Do you know where it is—your comfort?”