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.