A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation

O if it’s true that in the night,

When rest the living in their havens

And liquid rays of lunar light

Glide down on tombstones from the heavens,

O if it’s true that still and bare

Are then the graves until aurora —

I call the shade, I wait for Laura:

To me, my friend, appear, appear!

Beloved shadow, come to me

As at our parting — wintry, ashen

In your last minutes’ agony;

Emerge in any form or fashion:

A distant star across the sphere,

A gentle sound, a puff of air or

The most appalling wraith of terror,

I care not how: appear, appear!..

I call you — not to speak my scorn

Of people whose ill-fated malice

Has killed my friend, and not to learn

The secrets of the nether-palace,

And not because a doubt may tear

My heart at times… but as I suffer,

I want to say that still I love her,

That still I’m yours: appear, appear!

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