Balmont K. The rushes

When midnight comes, in a backwater mush
The rushes not harshly, and hushfully, brush.

Of what do these sough? Of what do these speak?
What for do amongst them some little lights peek?

All blinking and winking, and once they’re gone,
Once more the fen-fire is glimmering yon.

When midnight comes, then the rushes will bristle:
The toads there nestle, and the serpents there whistle.

Upon the dim surface a face is cast:
The Crescent, deep-red, there flickers its last.

The mire starts reeking; the damp starts to creep.
The bog will draw in and constrict in the deep.

“Yet whom? To what end?” will the rushes then seek,
“What for do amongst us these little lights peek?”

Its face but numbly at that downcast,
The Crescent, unknowing, soon will have passed.

As if one’s last breath being lost in the mush,
The rushes, forlornly and hushfully, brush.

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«Камыши», из цикла «За пределы», сб. «В безбрежности», 1895. К. Д. Бальмонт. Полное собрание стихов. Том первый. Издание четвёртое — М.: Скорпион, 1914.