And I see myself before the low window of Russian suburban home. Summer evening quietly melts and turns into night, the warm air smelled of mignonette and lime-tree, and on the window, leaning on his arm and straightened his head to his shoulder, sits a girl - and silently and stares at the sky as if waiting for the appearance of the first stars. How ingenuously-inspired, dreamy eyes, as touchingly innocent open, inquiring lips as smoothly breathing is not yet fully blossomed, yet nothing agitated bosom, as pure and gentle image of a young person! I do not dare speak to her - but she dear to me, beating my heart!
How fair, how fresh were the roses ...

And in the room grew darker and a dark ... Nagorevshaya candle crackles, fleeting shadows wavering on a low ceiling, frost creaks and angry over the wall - and fancies boring, old man whispers ...
How fair, how fresh were the roses ...

Confronting my other images ... We hear the noise of cheerful family of village life. Two blond head, leaning to one another, boldly looking at me with his bright eyes, cheeks scarlet flutter suppressed laughter, hands tenderly intertwined, vperebivku sound young, good voice, but a little farther away, deep in the cozy room, others too young arms running, fumbling fingers, the keys of an old piano - and lannerovsky Waltz can stifle grumbling patriarchal samovar ...
How fair, how fresh were the roses ...

Candle fades and goes out ... Who is there so hoarse cough and dull? Curled up in a loaf, shakes and shudders at the feet of my old dog, my only friend ... I feel cold ... I zyabnu ... and they all died ... died ...
How fair, how fresh were the roses ...

September 1879