Alexander Pushkin

the floweret

A floweret, withered, odorless in a book forgot I find; And already strange reflection cometh into my mind. Bloomed, where? When? In what spring? And how long ago? And plucked by whom? Was it by a strange hand? Was it by a dear hand? And wherefore left thus here? Was it in memory of a tender meeting? Was it in memory of a fated parting? Was it in memory of a lonely walk? In the peaceful fields or in the shady woods? Lives he still? Lives she still? And where their nook this very day? Or are they too withered like unto this unknown floweret? The Flower The flower, very dry and scentless, I see in the forgotten book; And now, with the strangest fancies, Is filled my soul’s every nook. Where and in which spring was it grown? And how long? By whom was cut? By a hand known or unknown? And why was put this page behind? To the recall of the love-talking, Or separation forced by fate, Or quiet and alone walking In the fields’ silence and woods’ shade? Is he alive? And his sweet lady? And where is now their little nook? Or maybe they had both faded, Like this strange flower in this book? Yevgeny Bonver

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