In the hour of mournful midnight the beating of the heart grows more distinct, and nearer comes the bright-winged companion, my grieved and gentle friend

He draws near, but soon
I lose myself, and in my sleep
I see a storm, I see the sea
And maidens laughing on its floor.

He knows the abysses of earthly, dark
unbelief, and he grieves,
And lets fall his shining feathers,
And timidly gazes into my soul.

And, lowering his wings, he breathes upon me
The enchantment of stillness,
And softly sighs, dispersing
My blasphemous dreams...

And I, waking, hate
My ruinous life,
I see the departing shadow
And I see the dawn beyond the window.

And the rays of day fall...
The whole room is bright with them:
They are, after all, golden feathers
From his invisible wing.

Literal translation

Vladimir Nabokov, "The Guardian Angel"

Icon from the collection of the Russian Museum: the Guardian Angel, the Venerable Anastasia of Alexandria and the Holy Empress Alexandra, Romanov-Borisoglebsk, first quarter of the 19th century