Bloody Scottish Moon

I had not tried the wine that ancients made,

And had not heard of Ossian's old tune;

So why, on earth, I seem to see the glade,

And, in the skies -- the bloody Scottish moon?

And the call-over of a raven with a  harp

I faintly hear in that silence, full of fright,

And, spread by winds, the winter woolen scarves

Of knights are flashing in the red moonlight!

I had received the blessing to inherit

Another singer's ever rambling dreams;

For kin's and neighbor's spiritual merits

To have despise we're absolutely free.

And not a lone treasure, I suppose,

Will pass grandchildren and to others fling,

Again a scald will ancient songs compose,

And, as his own, will again them sing.

by

Osip Mandelstam