Alexander Pushkin


I love you, — though I rage anew And struggle in vain, distressed, And at your feet, I now confess This foolishness to you! This ill befits my age, and I… Should know: enough’s enough! But all the symptoms here imply That I am plagued with love: Without you near, — I’m feeling bored; With you, — I feel estranged now; But I can’t speak a single word Of how I love you, angel! When, from the living room, I hear Your girlish laughter in the distance, Or when I see you walking near, I lose my mind that very instant. You’ll smile — and my joy is real; You’ll turn away — I pine; And my reward for this ordeal — Your pale-white hand in mine. When by the lace frame, full of care, You’re bending carelessly, your hair Hangs low, your eyes are mild — I marvel at you, but don’t dare To say a word, as though a child! Shall I confess what plagues my soul What brings me jealousy and worry, When you are going for a stroll, When weather’s foul and stormy? When you are all alone and crying, And when we talk till morning light, And when the speedy carriage’s flying, When the piano plays at night? I only ask for your compassion. Alina! I can’t ask for love. Throughout this life, I’ve sinned enough, To not be worthy of your passion. But try to feign it! I’m naïve. That gaze beguiles me, believe me! Ah, it’s so easy to deceive me!.. This time, I’m glad to be deceived! Translated by Andrey Kneller

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