The poem
I wrung my hands under my dark veil. . . "Why are you pale, what makes you reckless?" -- Because I have made my loved one drunk with an astringent sadness.
I'll never forget. He went out, reeling; his mouth was twisted, desolate. . . I ran downstairs, not touching the banisters, and followed him as far as the gate.
And shouted, choking: "I meant it all in fun. Don't leave me, or I'll die of pain." He smiled at me -- oh so calmly, terribly -- and said: "Why don't you get out of the rain?"
Kiev, 1911