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“Have you ever found a flower, simple and modest, in a dark grove, in the young spring grass? (You were alone, in a foreign land.) It waited for you, in the dewy grass , it blossomed alone... And for you, its pure scent, its first scent, it saved. And you pluck the fragile stem. With a careful hand, you thread it into your buttonhole, with a slow smile, the flower you destroyed. And so, you walk along a dusty road; All around, the entire field is burnt, Abundant heat pours from the sky, And your flower has long since withered. It grew in the calm shade, Nourished by the morning rain, And was eaten away by the scorching dust, Scorched by the midday ray. So what? Regret is in vain! It must have been created to stay for a moment In the vicinity of your heart.” — Ivan Turgenev