No, no, I did not love you,—gladly

Scorched though I was by such a flame;

And yet explain the strength that sadly

Still lingers for me in your name.

In front of me I saw you kneeling,

Like one who waited for a crown;

And round your youthful head was wheeling

Death’s silent shade to strike you down.

You went,—but not to triumph going;

You went to death. Oh empty night l

My Angel, may you stay not knowing,

Not seeing my despairing plight.

But if white suns from Paradises

Shine on the pathway in the spring,

But if the meadow bird arises

Among the spiked sheaves, on the wing.

Oh this is you, I know it, trying

To converse with me from the grave;

I see the shot-scarred hillock lying

Above the Dniester’s bloody wave.

Days of renown and love forgetting.

Forgetting days of youth gone by.

And crafty ways, and soul’s dark fretting.

Yet still your face, your fame unsetting

I shall remember till I die.