He looks hither, thither and then afar 
to question the shocked silence of his fear. 
Above him reigns a scintillating star,
wrought in the dark sky like an icy tear. 

He moves between plots of freshly-dug earth
with the cautioned step of a wounded fox, 
and discovers traces of that second birth
which calls pale men to the funerary box. 

Dead, interred but yet forgotten so soon 
no grave bore the name of him who once was.
Like a stolen kiss beneath a full moon,
these men were disposed of without a pause. 

This is what terrified the aging Pushkin so. 
Death itself inspired no unusual woe. 
But he lamented those names lost in snow.