I Was Not Born To Amuse The

Write For Pleasure And Publish For Money.

My Whole Life Has Been Pledged To This Meeting With You.

I've Lived To Bury My Desires And See My Dreams Corrode With Rust Now All That's Left Are Fruitless Fires That Burn My Empty Heart To Dust. Struck By The Clouds Of Cruel Fate My Crown Of Summer Bloom Is Sere Alone And Sad, I Watch And Wait And Wonder If The End Is Near. As Conquered By The Last Cold Air When Winter Whistles In The Wind Alone Upon A Branch That's Bare A Trembling Leaf Is Left Behind.

Moscow... How Many Strains Are Fusing In That One Sound, For Russian Hearts! What Store Of Riches It Imparts!

Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest Dreams And Meditations, In Swift Succession Should Decay, Like Autumn Leaves That Rot Away.