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


Don’t ask me why, alone in dismal thought,

In times of mirth, I’m often filled with strife,

And why my weary stare is so distraught,

And why I don’t enjoy the dream of life;

Don’t ask me why my happiness has perished,

Why I don’t love the love that pleased me then,

No longer can I call someone my cherished–

Who once felt love will never love again;

Who once felt bliss, no more will feel its essence,

A moment’s happiness is all that we receive:

From youth, prosperity and joyful pleasantry,

All that is left is apathy and grief…

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