I think of thee ... and many other memories, other pictures rise up
before me,--and thou art everywhere, on all the paths of my life I
encounter thee.--Now there presents itself to me an old Russian garden
on the slope of a hill, illuminated by the last rays of the summer sun.
From behind silvery poplars peeps forth the wooden roof of the
manor-house, with a slender wreath of crimson smoke hanging above the
white chimney, and in the fence a wicket-gate stands open a crack, as
though some one had pulled it to with undecided hand. And I stand and
wait, and gaze at that gate and at the sand on the garden paths; I
wonder and I am moved: everything I see seems to me remarkable and new,
everything is enveloped with an atmosphere of a sort of bright,
caressing mystery, and already I think I hear the swift rustle of
footsteps; and I stand, all alert and light, like a bird which has just
folded its wings and is poised ready to soar aloft again--and my heart
flames and quivers in joyous dread before the imminent happiness which
is flitting on in front....