The Russian Review/Volume 1/April 1916/Earth
Earth.
By N. F. Shcherbina.
Translated by Edith M. Thomas.
Do you remember, dear—or care?
When I was but a little thing,
Among the garden-blossoms, there,
I brushed a bee and took its sting:
My finger pained me. Quick and hot,
My tears ran like a rivulet.
You laid upon the aching spot
A lump of brown earth, cool and wet. . .
And, all at once, there was no pain!
And you looked on, with your kind eyes,
To see me at my sport, again,
Of chasing dappled butterflies.
That time is long and long since flown;
But I received a later dart. . .
Oh, dear my friend, to you I own,
It is Love's shaft within my heart!
So be it!—now I only crave
The perfect cure that with you lies—
A little cool earth from your grave
Above this heart, upon these eyes.