It was blank, that page,
'twere better left that way;
its virginal state is obscured
by the most innocent scribbles.

It would have been far better
if nothing were ever written.
'Twas blank, and I alone could see
upon it (whether crying or smiling)
the friendly verses I had dreamed;

These verses you dictated personally
gazed intently there, even peacefully,
and the page under the poem 
lost nothing of its whiteness. 

A strange fantasy it is to have desired
upon this paper
to crucify poetry
like a fresh flower in an herbarium.

She is nothing more than a victim;
under your eyes, no more remains of
its former intimate foretaste;
all the written verses are so old!

And behold! You so advanced and developed!
You must have treats about you everywhere!
In place of a lily in my thoughts,
a madrigal in your album.