V

I picked this cornflower in the rustling rye, These briar roses from a luscious hedge, This purple iris in the woodland sedge. It was the quaver of the dragon-fly, Dropped like a piece of azure from the sky, That led me to that pool amongst the trees-- And there I lay and listened to the bees, And murmured sadly to myself: “Good-bye.”

Good-bye! these perished petals that I send Will tell you that this truly is the end; Good-bye to you and to the golden hours. These briar roses grew beside the stream-- No, no! I shall not send you faded flowers-- I need them for the grave of my lost dream.

Sosnofka, June 1914

1914-1915