Feathers are and his verse, Filled with love’s nonsense, in the most, Sound and flow. He reads poems Aloud, in a lyric mist, As does drunk Delving on a feast. XXI These verse are saved I don’t know how, – I have them: there’s the whole thing: where have you retreated now, “Where, The golden days of my sweet spring? What can for me the next day bear? My look can not it from here, In deepest darkness the sight. I needn’t it; the fate’s law is right. Should I fall, pierced by a sharp arrow, Or it would miss me in its flight, All’s good: Its hour is defined For vigil and for sleeping, mellow; It’s blessed the trouble of day’s light, – It’s blessed the calmness of dark night. – XXII The morn beam will be blazed And in daily colors set, – But, I’d gone in my own Tomb’s cold and mysterious And memory of the young bard easy Would sink into the slow Lethe, The world wouldn’t care for me - but you? Would my ideal come there to – To pour a tear o’er the urn, And think: he was in love with me, He was my ardent devotee Through the sad dawn of his life, stormy!... Friend of my come here, come here: I for you I am your free!...” – His style was very dark and slow (The one that we call romance’, ’a Though a romance, as I well know, Was not here even by a chance.) And just before the dawn is going,
Feathers are and his verse, Filled with love’s nonsense, in the most, Sound and flow. He reads poems Aloud, in a lyric mist, As does drunk Delving on a feast. XXI These verse are saved – I don’t know how, I have them: there’s the whole thing: “Where, where have you retreated now, The golden days of my sweet spring? What can for me the next day bear? My look can not it from here, In deepest darkness the sight. I needn’t it; the fate’s law is right. Should I fall, pierced by a sharp arrow, Or it would miss me in its flight, All’s good: Its hour is defined For vigil and for sleeping, mellow; It’s blessed – the trouble of day’s light, It’s blessed – the calmness of dark night. XXII The morn beam will be blazed And – in daily colors set, But, I’d gone in my own Tomb’s cold and mysterious And memory of the young bard easy Would sink into the slow Lethe, The world wouldn’t care for me - but you? Would my ideal come there to – To pour a tear o’er the urn, And think: he was in love with me, He was my ardent devotee Through the sad dawn of his life, stormy!... Friend of my come here, come here: I for you – I am your free!...” His style was very dark and slow (The one that we call ’a romance’, Though a romance, as I well know, Was not here even by a chance.) And just before the dawn is going,