In the quiet heart of the ice-covered valley, the river murmured, trickling.
In the frigid stream, a water-thrush was dipping and diving.
He finished his supper, and flitted to an icy branch in the center of the stream. The fact that he was not yet frozen, and the non-stop flicker of his movements, appeared to constitute a procession of miracles.
And then, not only was he improbably and throbbingly alive, he was -- singing. A warble -- a few piercing, leaping trills -- the sort of call that must have left in its wake traces of yearning, of wordless verses painted on the pewter sky.
In response, another tiny bird flew directly over his head. In less than a blink, he was off the branch, airborne, swirling into formation with his mate, until he disappeared into the forest behind me.
I realized that I had nearly forgotten to breathe, while listening to his song.
Snow is everywhere; quiet all around;Nature slumbers in a winter dream,
And between the clouds, gray and grimacing,
The dull daylight is peeking.
Above my empty window
Is only a single bird's nest,
But it serves to remind me
of spring, of flowers, and the sun!
Всюду снег; кругом всё тихо;
Зимним сном природа спит,
И сквозь туч — седых и хмурых —
Тускло солнышко глядит.
Над моим окном пустое
Птичье гнёздышко одно —
Но весну, цветы и солнце
Мне напомнило оно!..