My sad gusts,
My futile dreams
You set up lonely,
And I became hostile to you.
What to do! Better I can not
You, beautiful, read
About premature graves,
Where is the mystery - the eternal printing.
But in the heart of the poor poet
Boil hot passion,
Beautiful appearance warmed,
Jet invisible key.
Your soul does not feel it,
As you all - young and light,
yet bezumstvuet, longs
You misunderstood poet.
12-13 August 1899
