Where the sulent fly of troikas (* three horses, harnessed together)
Rebounds through the long halls crazy,
Where the vines are warmed in goblets -
There the roundelay appears.
Swishing and ringing, creeping and blanching,
They ride the long circles around,
Where the violins, melting and slackening -
Defeat to the furious bows.
One goes out of the circle, strechening hand
Into the half-darkness;
Defining her fate-friend
And dropping the flower down.
Don't pick up the flower! It is sweet
To forget all the days passed,
And all the wild cheer
Of your future death final.
There all - is play of the fire and fate dismal, ,
And only in the bitter hour of insult,
From the irretrievable distance
A sad angel would show through.
19 july 1910