Ego

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.