A flower withered, without scent,
Forgotten in a book I see,
And all at once a curious vision
Fills my soul:

Where did it bloom and when? Was it during spring?
And for how long did it bloom? And picked by whom,
By foreign or familiar hands?
And laid in here for what?

In remembrance of a tender meeting,
Or a fateful separation,
Or a solitary stroll
In a silent field, or in a shady forest?

And still alive is he, and still alive is she?
And now where is their small corner?
Or already are they withered,
Like this unknown flower?

My Russian Pages

I wonder if someday, someone will open my book of Pushkin's works and wonder where this flower came from?

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