Tired of daytime wanderings
I go away sometimes from the bustle
Vospomnit ulcers of the suffering,
Alarm the old dreams…
When I could breathe her soul
Spring happiness on a winter day!
ABOUT, not, why, why destroy
Her infant sloth?
Pretty me carry my soul
To her heavenly heights,
Where happiness dawns we sometimes,
But we will not be.
30 October 1898
