\"Don\'t be hysterical, my precious George, -
Chopin said through his cough, -
The petty rain is falling incessantly. I pledge:
I\'m sick of these damp walls and lot!”
And the island of Mallorca, through the wet haze,
Rushes on like a brig without a crew;
On it, surviving on a slippery corner base
Stands the monastery, their only solace a few.
The piano, with its lid closed, mourns,
And the keys weep silently;
Concerts, successes have faded into the morn,
The painful stagnation is remains only.
The bloodless Chopin is already coughing up blood,
And his face is pale as a shroud;
And there is no one to cry out among the gloomy around:
\"To you, the composer, Hosanna!\"
However, this hardship did not prevent them to a stud,
From continuing their noble work comeo:
Chopin there composed his \"Raindrop\" Prelude,
George Sand wrote her novel \"Consuelo\".