When all is said and done, no literature can outdo the cynicism of real life; you won't intoxicate with one glass someone who has already drunk up a whole barrel. - Anton Chekhov
What does a woman, one who is alone,
know of the hour of death?
So chic, so tall, so like a rose - why do you, why
Float up, a spectre, from the bottom of the years,
And your dim, trembling profile, grasped by memory,
Behind the glass of coaches reappears?
The arguments were fierce - some called you bird, some angel;
A poet likened you quite aptly to a straw.
From out your gorge-dark eyes, through thick black lashes,
A tender light poured meant alike for all.
O shade, forgive me, do! It was this perfect weather,
Flaubert, insomnia, late lilac that of you,
Belle of nineteen-thirteen, reminded me, and too
Of your unruffled, cloudless days... They're altogether
Superfluous, these recollections that invade
My waking hours. They don't become me, shade... O shade!