Works

Somewhere, sometime, long, long ago, I read a poem. It was soon forgotten ... but the first line has stuck in my memory -

'How fair, how fresh were the roses ...'
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I fancied I was somewhere in Russia, in the wilds, in a simple country house.
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I was walking over a wide plain alone.

And suddenly I fancied light, cautious footsteps behind my back.... Some one was walking after me.
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WORKMAN. Why do you come crawling up to us? What do ye want? You're none of us.... Get along!

MAN WITH WHITE HANDS. I am one of you, comrades!
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What an insignificant trifle may sometimes transform the whole man!

Full of melancholy thought, I walked one day along the highroad.
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What shall I think when I come to die, if only I am in a condition to think anything then?
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