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作者: Adam Mickiewicz

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She went to the table to pour wine for the guests.
The sun was already setting, the evening was warm and quiet; the
circle of the heavens, here and there strewn with little clouds,
was azure on high, but rosy in the west; the little clouds
foretold fine weather, being light and shining-here like flocks
of sheep sleeping on the greensward, there of somewhat smaller
size, like coveys of teal. In the west was a cloud in shape like
the drapery curtains of a couch, transparent and with many folds,
pearly at the summit, gilded on the margin, purple in the centre;
it still burned and glowed with the western gleams; at last it
slowly turned yellow, then pale and grey; the sun dropped its
head, drew the cloud about it, and sighing a single time with a
warm breath-it fell asleep.230

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