WITH. Solovyov
She grew up behind the distant mountains.
Desert long - it was the birthplace.
None of you burning eyes
It is not ripe - it is a growing.
Only the face of the immortal lights,
What a day - I am looking at virgin blossoming,
AND, wet grass, she said to him was rising,
She kept a mystery trail.
And death is gone, I wish toskuya.
None of you have seen the local dust…
suddenly blossomed, in the azure triumph,
In a given in the heavenly mountains.
And now all fanned snow.
Who white temple, crazy, I visited?
She blossomed beyond the distant mountains,
It flows in a number of other luminaries.
26 June 1901
