I have written down the words
I have long not dared to speak.
Dully the head beats,
This body is not my own.
The call of the horn has died.
The heart has the same puzzles.
Lie on the croquet lawn.
Let the last leaves rustle!
Let the last thoughts languish!
I don't want to trouble
People used to being happy.
Because your lips are yours
I forgive their cruel joke . . .
O, tomorrow you will come
On the first sledge-ride of winter.
The drawing-room candles will glow
More tenderly in the day.
I will bring from the conservatory
A whole bouquet of roses.
1910, Tsarskoye Selo
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