by Alexander Pushkin
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.
Last updated January 14, 2019