To the Fountain of the Palace of the Bakchisarai

The stream of love, the stream alive, I brought to thee two roses, as a present. I like the ceaseless murmur thy, And lyric tears, still and pleasant.

Thy silver dust, that hangs in air, Drops onto me like dew of morning, Oh, go, go, dear flowing, Sing, sing to me thy saga fair.

The stream of love, the stream of sadness! And I have asked thy marble's white: I've read the praise to lands of aliens, But Mary was not there implied.

The pale star of the harem, dreary! Are you forgotten in a past? Or whether Zarema and Mary Are only happy dreams for us?

And only dreamed imagination Had drowned in the empty dark Its flitting visions' pale reflections, The soul fancy's easy mark?