Believe me not, dear, when in hours of anguish
I say my love for thee
exists no more.
At ebb of tide, think
not the sea is faithless;
It will return with
love unto the shore.
E'en now I pine for
thee with old-time passion,
And place my freedom in
thy hands once more.
Already, with loud
noise, the waves are hasting
Back from afar to the
beloved shore.
A. K. Tolstoy
translated by Alice
Stone Blackwell
(Picture: Tide, Fyodor Vasilyev)
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