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'twas very many years ago
On a train to ancient Moscow:
A man on the back row quietly sat,
Like a rat hiding from a ferocious cat.
Slow-and-steady the wheels rolled
(On that winter night very cold,)
As the erstwhile where he sat mute,
Stared at a figure before him so cute.

And for many hours on that train
Which journeyed down Moscow's lane,
He sat amid the other passengers
As sad as a ghost bereft of partners:
For nothing to him of notice meant
Save the figure on which his eyes set
—Which flew him to the nostalgia
Of his unforgettable woman, Maria.

Once upon a time, he recalled,
Was a lady like the one onboard,
With whom he travelled far and wide
Those days he had her by his side.
But in each second of her remembrance
Were fresh pains of a disappearance
Which the more he remembered,
The more reason he had to be sad.

Maria Vlochowski was her name
Before she became his very dame;
And so kingly was his pride that day
When she chose with him to stay.
But the cold kiss of death so mindless
Paid a visit and took his mistress;
Yet once again on a train to Moscow
He wished she never had to go.

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