Finally, I remembered to get the other poem off the refrigerator. Hard work that.
"The Little Golden Cloud"
Mikhail Lermontov (1814-1841)
The little golden cloud spent the night
On the breast of the great cliff
Early next morning she took to her way,
Into the azure, merrily playing;
But moist tracks remain in the wrinkles
of the ancient stone.
Lonely, He stands, reflecting deeply,
And softly he weeps in the wilderness