Текст песни Д. Мережковский - Ноябрь

The pale month is at a loss
The air bell is dead and clean
And on a bare, chilly willow
Rustles a withered leaf.

Freezes, gets heavier
In the abyss of a quiet pond
And it turns black and thickens
Still water.

The pale month on damage
The dying man lies
And on a bare black willow
The cold beam does not tremble.

The sky shines, dying,
Like a magical land
Like a lost paradise
Inaccessible fields.
Silver Age Poetry.