For the sigh of the morning frost, Blushing the lips, How strange the rose smiled On a fast September day! Before the fluttering tit In the long leafless bushes How daring to act as a queen With spring greetings on our lips. Blossom in unswerving hope - With a cold parting ridge, Snuggle up last, intoxicated To the breast of the young mistress! November 22, 1890 |