To Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
Your song-bird, trailing wounded wings,
Sings with such a plaintive note,
To us so sympathetic rings
The sorrow in the singer's throat,
Our coldness with that anguish burns,
Of the song's pain enamoured grown,
And the heart in us, echoing, yearns
And weeps for woes that seem its own.
Poet, misfortune's ulcerous sore,
Anointing with secreted balm,
The tears that from your soul you pour
Ring pearls about an inward harm.
Prince Pyotr Vyazemsky