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Poem	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 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 logings And with poetry fill my head. Once in a while, alast 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. English version by Corneliu M. Popescu Transcribed by Delia Nita School No. 9, Focsani, Romania Teacher coordinator: Radita Neagu *
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