By : Mikhail Lermontov
There is a blest place: by the trace
In wilderness, in a little glade’s middle,
Where in the eve, mists twine and bristle
In moony silver’s easy lace…
My friend! You know that glade, fair;
There dig a pit and let me rest,
When I will cease to breathe in air.
Give to that grave a good regard —
Let all be legally there settled
Raise on the grave a cross of maple,
And place a stone, wild and hard.
When thunderstorms will shake the forest,
The traveler will see my cross;
Maybe, the stone and the moss
Will give to him a rest at most.