My beloved, I am awaiting you. Yesterday you said: "Meet me in the green gardens beside the great and ancient oak near the shores of the azure sea". I read your letter with such delight and hastened to that spot. I heated tea in the samovar and spread out the blankets. I made everything ready for us to meet. But where are you? Why haven't you come? The morning and day are past; the wind is getting cold. I fell asleep and awoke, forgetting the time. Squirrels are lapping at my tea. You promised to embrace me, but I feel only the fingers of the wind. You spoke of kisses and caresses, but only the sun's warmth is on my cheeks. Where is the love you swore was true? I had hoped to admire your beauty which has filled my dreams for so long. But what was there to see? Only morning's mist, fading in the trees or sunlight, changing dew into rainbows... What of the gifts you swore to bring? There is no gold for me here, only pain. My heart is empty but for your love -- which, it must be said, I would not trade for any price. So I write in consternation, my love: the night has come and your place is empty. Have I anything to do but wait? And yet, something in my soul tells me: how strange that I am awaiting you.