On Neva stand hundred embassies

Above the federal buildings' yellow gown
A hazy flurry circles far and wide
Within the sled the coachman sits down
And with a broad gesture hides his coat inside.

Ships fall asleep. And in the evening, rocking,
Thick cabin windows fill to brim with light.
And monstrously — just like a fortress docking —
Russia is breathing heavily at night.

On the Nieva stand hundred embassies;
Admiralty, the sun, and silence glare.
The state's tight porphyry upon us sits,
Poor like an uncouth bodice made of hair.

Hard is the journey of the Northern snob —
Eugene Onegin's well-cliche'ed despair;
On Senate square are mounds of fallen snow
A bonfire's smoke, and chill of steel made bare.

The ducks are sipping water, and the gulls
In waving folds of sea are gently lurking
Where, selling lumps of beef or tender rolls,
Like opera singers peasant men are walking.

Into the fog a row of birds is flying:
Self-loving, modest march can't wait.
That goof Onegin, poverty decrying
Is breathing gasoline and cursing fate.
— Osip Mandelstam