The Grave Of The Countess Potocki

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In spring's own country, where the gardens blow,
You faded, tender rose! For hours now past,
Like butterflies departing, on you're cast
The worms of memories to work you woe.
Northward toward Poland stars in thousands glow:
Why in that region are such myriads massed?
Did your bright glance, before it died at last,
Light sparks along the path it loved to go?
O Polish maid! I die an exile too;
Let some kind hand throw on me friendly mold!
Here travelers gathering often talk of you
And I shall hear the speech I knew of old,
And he who sings your praise will also view
My grave near by, and I shall be consoled

© Adam Mickiewicz