By Nikolay Gumilev
(June 1917)
Who lies in their casket
Hears a wondrous chime
Of the whitest lilies
Odors would divine.
Who lies in their casket
Sees eternal glow
Of seraphic feathers,
Overflowing snow.
Yes, you might be dying,
And your hands are cold,
Knowing not the Springtime
Of beyond this world.
But you go to heaven,
For I've vouched for you.
It is so, I know it,
And I vow it true.