A week son of the dying generation,
I would not seek the roses of Alps,
I will not gain the beautiful sensation,
Not from wave’s noise, nor from young tempests hums.
But I would see on fields of scarlet glass
The brilliant and forever crying highlands,
The faded flowers in whites of tables’ vase,
The ornament, that flame of evening founds.
And when my head has sunk in nightly rest,
I read dreamed stories, lost of any real,
Forgotten words of books, burned in forgotten past,
In hazy sleep, I kiss with hot appeal.