Drops a sprig in silence
To the fence.
Like him, I'm mute.
Shorn of fruit,
Estranged from branch and tree.

Shorn of fruit, the flower
Memory forgotten,
The leaves do sway,
Sure victims for the gale to slay.

Then the nights do come.
The nightmare –
The gall –
I thrash about in the dark,
I knock my head against the wall.

And spring will come.
Its splendour
A foil
To me, a barren twig,
Which bringeth forth
No fruit, nor flower, nor nil.

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ביאליק בצעירותו
(YIVO Institute for Jewish Research, New York.)