* * *

Upon the hills of Georgia lies the haze of night...
Below, Aragva foams... The sadness
That fills the void of fais is, strangely, half delight,
'Tis both sweet pain and sweeter gladness.
Because you haunt my heart, it cannot be at rest,
And yet 'tis light, and untormented
By morbid thoughts... It loves... it loves because it must,
And, for all that, remains contented.