• ro
  • en
  • fr
  • it
  • Solitude

    With the curtains drawn together,
    At my table of rough wood,
    And the firelight flickering softly,
    Do I fall to thoughtful mood.

    Flocks and flocks of sweet illusions,
    Memories the mind recalls,
    And they softly creep like crickets
    Through time’s grey and crumbled walls;

    Or they drop with gentle patter
    On the pavement of the soul,
    As does wax before God’s altar
    From the sacred candles roll.

    About the room in every corner
    Silver webs the spiders sew,
    While among the dusty bookshelves
    Furtive mice soft come and go.

    And I gaze towards the ceiling
    That so many times I saw,
    And I listen how the bindings
    With their tiny teeth they gnaw.

    O, how often have I wanted
    My worn Lyre aside to lay;
    From poetry and solitude
    At last my thoughts to turn away.

    But again the mice, the crickets,
    With their small and rustling tread,
    Awake in me familiar longings
    And with poetry fill my head.

    Once in a while, alas too rarely,
    When my lamp is burning late,
    Suddenly my heart beats wildly
    For I hear the latch-bar grate.

    It is She. My dusky chamber
    In a moment seems to glow;
    As if an icon’s holy lustre
    Did o’er life’s threshold flow.

    And I know not how the moments
    Have the heart away to sneak,
    While we whisper low our loving,
    Hand in hand, and cheek to cheek.

     

    Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu