I think at last my heart may fathom,
a glimpse of the disbelievers’ maxim;
what devotion is I no longer know,
thus so knowledge may knowingly go.
The falling leaves my limbs embrace,
October breezes brushing my face;
most gravely Pyotr my hand folds,
your song quivers to my fluttering grace.
‘Gentlemen, a genius!’ How I abhor that phrase!
This world of idols in voguish craze;
the sun I bear for these steady figures,
at night my illness in silence scourges.
I desire love, yet love I fear,
for all the misty memories I hear.
No more do I my sensibilities sense,
than the angel’s wish to toy or to recompense.
***
The sepia air most decorously scorns,
mankind racing towards its mourns;
this infliction of life I cannot escape,
my being is not gallant, but forlorn,
must I right this besieging wrong?
Quietly weeps his Autumn song.
