A friend of my harsh days,
The dove is decrepit!
One in the backwoods of pine forests
For a long time, you are waiting for me.
You are under the window of your own light
You grieve, as if on a watch,
And every minute the knitting needles
In your wrinkled hands.
You look at the forgotten gates
On the black distant road;
Yearning, foreboding, cares
Your chest is cramped all the time.
It seems to you. . . . . . . . .
1826
Disclaimer: I just found these in my library. I do not have the rights to them,
I just them and decided to share them with you.
