What's with you - I do not know, and I will not hide -
You're sick of transparent white.
Dear friend, learn, that is with thee,
You will know next spring.
You will understand, when, pillows lying,
You can not throw back the hands.
And then will come to you on the couch
Continuous, mournful sound.
The shadow of the lamps tremble and alarmed,
Someone, separated from the wall,
Suit - and slowly put
Delicate white shroud of snow.
5 December 1903
