The Flower, The flower, very dry and scentless, I see in the forgotten book; And now, with the strangest fancies, Is filled my soul’s every nook. Where and in which spring was it grown? And how long? By whom was cut? By a hand known or unknown? And why was put this page behind? To the recall of the love-talking, Or separation forced by fate, Or quiet and alone walking In the fields’ silence and woods’ shade? Is he alive? And his sweet lady? And where is now their little nook? Or maybe they had both faded, Like this strange flower in this book? Aleksandr Pushkin
Posted on: Wed, 14 Aug 2013 16:52:03 +0000
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