Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.
May I but live my Mark to see,
For something grievously weighs on me.”
From little bag the children’s gifts
She takes. There’s crosses and amulets.
For Irene is of beads a string,
And pictures too, and for Karpon
A nightingale to sweetly sing,
Toy horses and a wagon.
A fourth time she brings a ring