On way of life which led through the swamp
I found gem! from stones, with weeds faeces,
I raised to sun, and washed with tears,
And how this gem is call, I asked?..
  From over Sierras black cloud approached
  And nature on my way said me:
  Gemma!

Later on the way of life, which by beaten
Tracks led, wide – far –
I met figure with garish garment
Gold glittered her as the lid on coffin,
  And when I asked, she said: I’m your well-known,
  Fallen angel, but I was called –
  Gemma!

And once on boat, in full sea at night,
In the moonlight brought me young oarsman,
He sang barcarolle with orphan's homesickness,
That I saw in waves, the shape full of beauty,
  Like snow swan with flying hair
  She flowed in glitter … peace of drowneds
  Gemma!

Barcarole has already died down and waves
Hums as of yore on rocks of bay,
And moon rises from deep sea
And I squeeze my harp in madness of arms –
  And oarsman whispers: harpist do you remember?
  And harpist whispers: oarsman do you remember?
  Gemma!

  1869.