"Новые стансы к Августе"
(Иосиф Бродский)
XII
Euterpe, is that you? Tell, where did I wander?
And what's here under me: grass? water?
a heather lyre's shoot
that's bent in such a horseshoe
it seems like happiness,
such, maybe, how to switch
to ambling from galloping
so fast and not confuse a speech,
know this neither you nor Calliope.