Alexander Pushkin

The Night

My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle, Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle, By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard, Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood -- And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone, And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones, And smile to me, and hear I the voice: My friend, my sweetest friend... I love... I'm yours... I'm yours! Translated by Yevgeny Bonver Night My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning, Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning, A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing. I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing, Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone: My friend, my dearest friend... I love... I'm yours... Your own. Translated by Irina Zheleznova

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