Somewhere spring approached. I told her: “You’re spring!”
Like gray-winged doves
In the corners of her mouth
Something flitted in smiles –
And drowned in her soul...
The rye ripened. I told her: “You’re golden!”
Angrily her eyebrows splintered.
She turned away. And left.
And just kept looking back –
As though she were calling out: “Come!”
The mists began to move. I said: “You don’t love me!” She stopped. Looked. And spoke.
Right then Autumn had just come.
So, should I love? Tell me. Tell me right away!
Her laughter flashed like a dagger...
The grove grew sullen beneath the snow. I said to her: then... good-bye!
Suddenly with a warm and tender glow
Something gushed from her eyes...
Like a gray-winged dove
She is on my lips!
1917