Do not pity me or happy days, neither sultry,
None summer mature, neither young spring.
They passed - a light and restless,
And they shall come again - they are given land.
I'm sorry, that great day will soon blow,
Scarcely born child will die.
ABOUT, I pity, friend, - coming ardor cools,
In the darkness of the past and in the cold leaving!
Not, at least at the end of the alarm wanderings
I find ways and not a breath of the day!
Not darken our dating
So, who is sighing about me.
27 July 1901
