I loved thee with a silent desperation—­
Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,
I loved devoutly,—­with such deep devotion—­
Ah may God grant another love thee so!

Pushkin.

A SERENADE

I watch Inesilla
  Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
  In night’s dusky sheath.

Enamoured I linger,
  Close mantled, for thee—­
With sword and with guitar,
  O look once on me!

Art sleeping?  Wilt wake thee
  Guitar tones so light? 
The argus-eyed greybeard
  My swift sword shall smite.

The ladder of ropes
  Throw me fearlessly now! 
Dost falter?  Hast thou, Sweet,
  Been false to thy vow?

I watch Inesilla
  Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa
  In night’s dusky sheath!

Pushkin.

A WINTER EVENING

Sable clouds by tempest driven,
Snowflakes whirling in the gales,
Hark—­it sounds like grim wolves howling,
Hark—­now like a child it wails! 
Creeping through the rustling straw thatch,
Rattling on the mortared walls,
Like some weary wanderer knocking—­
On the lowly pane it falls.

Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen,
Drear and lonely our retreat,
Speak a word and break the silence,
Dearest little Mother, sweet! 
Has the moaning of the tempest
Closed thine eyelids wearily? 
Has the spinning wheel’s soft whirring
Hummed a cradle song to thee?

Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,
Thou true-souled companion dear—­
Let us drink!  Away with sadness! 
Wine will fill our hearts with cheer. 
Sing the song how free and careless
Birds live in a distant land—­
Sing the song of maids at morning
Meeting by the brook’s clear strand!

Sable clouds by tempest driven,
Snowflakes whirling in the gales,
Hark—­it sounds like grim wolves howling,
Hark—­now like a child it wails! 
Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,
Thou true-souled companion dear,
Let us drink!  Away with sadness! 
Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!

Pushkin.

THE LAST FLOWER

Rich the first flower’s graces be,
But dearer far the last to me;
My spirit feels renewal sweet,
Of all my dreams hope or desire—­
The hours of parting oft inspire
More than the moments when we meet!

Pushkin.

THE COMING OF THE WINTER

Stanzas from “Onegin"

Our Northern Winter’s fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland—­
Is undeniably withdrawing
On fleeting footsteps from the land. 
Soon will the Autumn dim the heavens,
The light of sunbeams rarer grown—­
Already every day is shorter,
While with a smitten hollow tone
The forest drops its shadow leafage;
Upon the fields the mists lie white,
In lusty caravans the wild geese
Now to the milder South take flight;
Seasons of tedium draw near,
Before the door November drear!