By a cliff a golden cloud once lingered;
On his breast it slept, but, riseing early,
Off it gently rushed across the pearly
Blue of sky, a tiny thing and winged.
Still, a trace it left upon the stony
Giant's heart, and plunged in thought and weeping
Slow and tortured tears, he stands there, keeping
Vigil o'er the gloomy waste and lonely.
1841. By Michail Lermontov. Translated by Irina Zheleznova.