I cannot tell.

Often I start up in the night with wild eyes and wonder if I shall
be eighty-seven.

* * *

Next Day.

I passed a flower in my walk to-day. It grew in the meadow beside
the river bank.

It stood dreaming on a long stem.

I knew its name. It was a Tchupvskja. I love beautiful names.

I leaned over and spoke to it. I asked it if my heart would ever
know love. It said it thought so.

On the way home I passed an onion.

It lay upon the road.

Someone had stepped upon its stem and crushed it. How it must have
suffered. I placed it in my bosom. All night it lay beside my pillow.

* * *

Another Day.