I loved you once,
I loved you once, nor can this heart be quiet;
For it would seem that love still lingers there;
But do not you be further troubled by it;
I would in no wise hurt you, oh, my dear.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender;
What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew!
A love as deep as this, as true, as tender,
God grant another may yet offer you.
Under the blue skies of her native land
She languished and began to fade. . .
Until surely there flew without a sound
Above me, her young shade.
But there stretches between us an un-crossable line;
In vain my feelings I tried to awaken.
The lips that brought the news were made of stone,
And I listened like a stone, unshaken.
So this is she for whom my soul once burned
In the tense and heavy fire,
Obsessed, exhausted, driven out of my mind
By tenderness and desire!
Where are the torments? Where is love? Alas!
For the unreturning days’
Sweet memory and for the poor credulous
Shade, I find no lament, no tears.
What means my name to you? …T’will die
As does the melancholy murmur
Of distant waves or, of a summer,
The forest’s hushed nocturnal sigh.
Found on a fading album page,
Dim will it seem and enigmatic,
Like words traced on a tomb, a relic
Of some long dead and vanished age.
What’s in my name? …Long since forgot,
Erased by new, tempestuous passion,
of tenderness ’twill leave you not
The lingering and sweet impression.
But in an hour of agony,
Pray, speak it, and recall my image,
And say, “He still remembers me,
His heart alone still pays me homage.”
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin,
was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era who is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet and the founder of modern Russian literature.