by its own delicacy, caressed

more sluggish the snowy hive,clearer the window’s crystal,
on a chair, a turquoise veil,thrown there, carelessly, lies.

a tissue, self-intoxicated,as if it never felt winter’s
touch, experiencing summer’s,
by its own delicacy, caressed:

and, if in icy diamonds
frost is eternally streaming,
here — it’s dragonflies flickering,
blue-eyed, living, and gone.osip mandelshtam - the stone - translated