Alexander Pushkin
Foreboding

Once again the storm-clouds hover
In the silence over me;
Jealous Fate again hangs over,
Menacing my misery.
Shall I face my Fate, disdaining?
Shall I bear it and display
All the patience uncomplaining
That was mine in youth’s proud day?

Tossed by stormy life and driven.
Careless of this storm I wait;
Maybe I shall find a haven
To protect me from my Fate. . . .
But to part — my fear foretold it!
That dread hour we cannot flee.
Let me take your hand and hold it;
For the last time give it me.

Kind and quiet Angel, hear me;
Speak to me with soft good-byes.
You have been somournful. Near me
Let your sweet face fall or rise.
The remembrance of your caring
More than compensation pays
For the strength and pride and daring
And the hope of youthful days.

Translated by Cecil Maurice Bowra