Here, At A Meagre Earth
Here, at a meagre earth, despondent
by Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
And listless stare the dull grey skies,
And, as if plunged in leaden slumber,
A eary nature moveless lies.
Alone the few pale birches, gleaming
Mid greyish moss and stubby brush,
Like visions born of fevered dreaming
Disrupt the lifeless, eerie hush.