At the funeral rite, I was in a hurry,
Accelerating mysterious race.
Shot down the road does not wind sad
Spun me pink snow.
I hid in a quiet valley -
Frosty mist parted.
That the church is visible on the plain -
Its gold dome…
I never get tired of praying,
Never tire wish, –
Only to return to the sweet years
And infant sleep see!
