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


Why feed the early signs of boredom

With sinister and dismal thought,

And wait for separation, burdened

With sorrow, lonesome and distraught?

The day of grief is close at hand!

You’ll stand, alone, out in the sun,

And try to bring back once again

These days, but they will long be gone.

Misfortune! then, you’ll be ready

To die in exile, on the street,

If you could only see your lady,

Or hear the shuffle of her feet.

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