Tiutchev, "Бессонница"

A work ("Insomnia") by this Russian poet.  You can read the original here.

The hours war in lockstep pace,
The burdened news of night’s misdeeds!
A tongue unknown to every race
And, clear as conscience, our fear feeds!

Who from us with no yearning heard,
Amid the global silence still,
The quiet years of moaning’s chill
And prescient voice, the final word?

We dream and see an orphaned realm,
Where fate’s hard force cannot be turned;
And we in war, at nature’s helm,
Are left to bear from what we’ve learned.

Before us then our life awaits,
A specter perched on green earth’s end;
And our mad years and those years’ mates
With us grow pale in twilight’s bend...

New generations rise up hence,
Against the sun they bloom in fire;
And we, dear friends, and our years sense
Oblivion’s long unbroke spire!

But rarely do sad rites convene
At midnight hour to sing our wake;
The funeral dirge of metal’s sheen
Shall mourn our time and mortal make!