R a l C
It does not want, not thin spruce
At sunset podemlyut crosses,
It is in that snegovoy Saale
My gentle, sweet, fingers.
Blown white blizzard
In depth, down and died in my, –
Here I am again on thy bed
leaned, breathe, learn…
I through the night, through the long nights,
I through the dark night - the crown.
Here they are - even the blue eyes
On my old-face!
In your voice - cries of the sea,
On the face of your - the sting of fire,
But I read in the startled eyes,
What do you remember and love me.
Second year
Old house permeated my snowstorm,
And cool lonely hearth.
I used to, so on this bed
He leaned closer only enemy.
And the soul visions for blind,
If you recall, - Oct vetr encounter,
Only the ruby red-hot from the ashes
My blackened face darkened!
I dare not look into your eyes,
All, what happened, - far from it.
Years of endless nights
Terrible memory of the heart is full.
September 1910
WITH. Shakhmatovo
