A desolate quarter rose near
The city on swampy and treacherous land.
There lived poets - and each with a sneer
Greeted an arrogant friend.

In vain a radiant day would climb
Above this sorrowful bog:
Its dweller gave up all his time
To wine and zealous work.

When they got drunk, their friendships were sworn,
Their talk was provoking and tart.
At dawn they vomited. Then, having withdrawn,
They worked blankly and hard.

Then they crawled out of kennels like dogs,
Watched how the sea was burning.
And fell for the gold of every girl's locks
With a professional yearning.

Softened, they dreamt of the golden age,
Cursed editors aloud
And bitterly wept over a bird in a cage
Or a little pearly cloud...

Thus lived the poets. Reader and friend!
You think, perhaps, - it was worse
Than your daily feeble exertions and
The philistine puddle of yours?

No, dear reader, my eyeless judge!
Leastwise poets possess
And locks, and clouds, and the golden age
All that you cannot access!..

You'll be content with yourself and your spouse,
With your curtailed constitution,
But the poet has a universal carouse
For him there aren't enough constitutions!

Let it be, from this world like a stray dog I go,
Let life grind me into the earth, - yet I
Shall believe: that God covered me with the snow,
That the blizzard kissed me goodbye!

July 24, 1908 - November 6, 2021

So be it, from this world like a stray dog I go,
Let life trample me down, - yet I
Shall believe: that the god covered me with the snow,
That the blizzard kissed me goodbye!

July 24, 1908 - November 6, 2021