darkened, faded halls.
Blackened grille window.
At the door, whispering vassals:
"Queen, Queen sick ".
And the king, knit one's brows,
He passed without the pages and servants.
And every word thrown
We caught a mortal illness.
At the door of the bedroom zatihnuvshey
I cried, clutching ring.
There - in the far end of the gallery
Someone seconded, covering his face.
At the door Incomparable Ladies
I sobbed in blue raincoat.
AND, reeling, He echoed the same -
The man with a pale face.
4 February 1903
