Page:Poems (Eminescu).pdf/6



Near my simple fir-wood table With the curtains drawn I sit, In the grate the fire is flick’ring, Musingly I look at it.

And like swallows sweet illusions Come in flights and wander all; Dear remembrances seem crickets Chirping in a ruined wall,

Or caressing come and sadly, Heavy in the soul they stop, Like the wax from candles falling Near Christ’s icon, drop by drop.

In my room in every corner Spiders have their cobwebs spun, And among the piled books hiding Furtively the mice now run.

In this peace mine eye distracted Upward to the ceiling looks, And I listen as they slowly Gnaw the covers of my books.

Oft I thought, the lyre forsaking, To depart and change my mood, And to leave off writing verses In this wasting solitude.