Not the wind, blowing from the… (Aleksey Konstantinovich Tolstoy )

Not the wind, blowing from the heights, the Leaves touched the lunar night; My soul has touched you — It is alarming, as the leaves, She, like the harp, polychord. Life’s a whirlwind film And a crushing RAID, Whistling and howling, the strings tore And put the cold snow. Your tone is mellifluous, easy the Your touch Like the flowers flying Pooh, As may night the blow