... captivated by Pushkin's line

The flower is withered, dry,
Forgotten in the book I see;
And now with a strange dream
My soul was filled:
Where did it bloom? when? what spring?
And how long did it bloom? and ripped off by whom,
A stranger, a familiar hand?
And put here why?
In memory of a tender date,
Or fatal parting,
Or a lonely walk
In the quiet of the fields, in the shade of the forest?
And is he alive and is she alive?
And now where is their corner?
Or have they already faded,
How is this unknown flower?
A. S. Pushkin