Sonnet I

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Without tis autumn, the wind beats on the pane
With heavy drops, the leaves high upwards sweep.
You take old letters from a crumpled heap,
And in one hour have lived your life again.

Musing, in this sweet wise the moments creep:
You pray no caller will your door attain;
Better it is when dreary falls the rain
To dream before the fire, awaiting sleep.

And thus alone, reclining in my chair,
The fairy Dochia s tale comes to my mind
While round me haze is gath ring in the air.

Then softly down the passage footsteps wind,
Faint, sound of rustling silk upon the stair
And now my eyes cold, tapering fingers bind.

(1879, Translated by Corneliu M. Popescu)




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