The sense of your bidding is unclear:

to pray, to curse, is it, to fight

you bid me, inscrutable genius?

The spring slackens, niggard, meager,

and Benozzo Gozzoli’s courier

dozes in the drowsy thickets.

Hills are dark with honeyed cloud.

Look: I do not touch lithe strings.

Your gaze, prophetically flying,

is clenched, gushes no winged streams,

and beckons by no May road, trying

to outstrip Hermes in his flight.

Hobbled horses do not neigh,

Aging warriors sprawl in disarray…

Hold your palms open wide!

Risen spring is bright,

but groves of darkness are not given

to leap for joy having leapt from dreams.

The groom names not the hour,

be not guiled to tarry,

hark through ice the clarion voice,

your flax is drenched with chrism,

and, bidding goodbye to numb laze,

free, in love, you will rise.

"

— Mikhail Kuzmin (1872-1936)