Song of the Last Meeting
My breast grew cold and numb,
But my feet were light.
On to my right hand I fumbled
The glove to my left hand.
It seemed that there were many steps
- I knew there were only three.
An autumn whispered between the maples
Kept urging: ‘Die with me.
Change has made me weary,
Fate has cheated me of everything.’
I answered: ‘My dear, my dear!
I’ll die with you. I too am suffering.’
It was a song of the last meeting.
Only bedroom –candles burnt
When I looked into the dark house,
And they were yellow and indifferent.
(Evening, Tsarskoye Selo, 1911)