«The night is dark, I cannot sleep, / I’ll stroll beside the river. / The lightning there begins to leap / in fizzing girdle’s sliver. On mountain now birch-candles glow / In silver’s moonlit feathers. / So come, my heart, now let us go / To hear the songs of zithers. I’ll feast...»
«Consume yourself with others’ pleas — / I’m left to my devices, thinking / Of glassy smoke of tresses’ tease, / Autumnal weary eyelids blinking. Oh, autumn comes! And it for me / than youth and summer is more precious. / But doubly pleasing you’re to me, / The poet’s thought...»
«The Russian bard since ancient times / Has yearned for countries strange and distant, / And most of all Caucasian climes / Have strangely lured with mist insistent. Here Pushkin, flamed with passion, wrote / With outcast’s lonely sad complaining: / "Do not, my beauty, single note / Of...»
«Mother dearest, is your heart still beating? / Mine is too, so greetings, Mum, to you! / And I hope that over home still fleeting / Evening light unspoken sheds its hue. Letters tell me you’re a little worried, / Seems my absence causes you distress, / They have seen you weeping as youâ...»