The moon has spilled the silver flour
The pale clouds grimly sneezed
Late August, covered up in mist
Arose from sleep before the cock
Could publicize the needed hour.
Two ashen birches in a twist
Shook off the ravens and the flock
Arose from branches with a holler.
And sultry rays, sprung up askew
Reflecting off the morning puddles.
The grass would gather into huddles
To share the sacred drops of dew.
All was awake and only you
Were still in slumber. Two small shoes
Lied carelessly below your bed.
And to this day, I still regret
Not waking you to see the splendor.
I let you sleep, my precious muse,
And now in sadness of September
Thereís nothing there to reproduce.
"I will not whole die, my soul in sacred lyre,
will outlive my dust and will escape decay,
And in the moonlit sphere, my glory will not tire
As long as poets still remain" A. Pushkin