I love the Tsarskoselsky Gardens Late in the fall when, in soft haze Enfolded, as in sleep's embrace They lie... The cold's breath slowly hardens, And on the dull glass of the lake, Clad in that same fine haze, white-winged And strangely languid visions linger And seem bemused, but half-awake. The skies are grey, by not a star lit... The evening's shadows onward press And softly lick the steps dark scarlet Of Catherine's lofty palaces. Then dark the gardens grow and dreamy, The stars appear and turn a dome, Outlined by them, into a gleam of A golden past, its symbol lone...