Defective Iambics

For the last time with streaming leaves
the fingers of the air between
that pass before the thunderstorm
from foliage importunate

into silver simply-formed
the olive poor is rippling, green
of art, and words, it fairly seems
were worth the fondling of no more,

but for the keenly-probing eye
and approbation of a vagrant,
but for the lily valleyed fragrant,
but for the thunderstorm drawn nigh.

Vladimir Nabokov, tr. C.M. (after V.N.)