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"Sing something else, Sinotschka!" cried Lialia; "or, better still,
recite one of your own poems."
"So you're a poetess, too?" asked Ivanoff. "How many gifts does the
good God bestow upon his creatures!"
"Is that a bad thing?" asked Sina in confusion.
"No, it's a very good thing," replied Sanine.
"If a girl's got youth and good looks, what does she want with poetry,
I should like to know?" observed Ivanoff.
"Never mind! Recite something, Sinotschka, do!" cried Lialia, amorous
and tender.
Sina smiled, and looked away self-consciously before she began to
recite in her clear, musical voice the following lines:
_Oh! love, my own true love,
To thee I'll never tell it,
Never to thee I'll tell my burning love!
But I will close these amorous eyes,
And they shall guard my secret well.
Only by days of yearning is it known.
The calm blue nights, the golden stars,
The dreaming woods that whisper in the night,
These, yes, they know it, but are dumb;
They will not show the mystery of my great love_.


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