Alexander Pushkin — Night

Alexander Pushkin — Night

My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearning,

Disturbs night's dreamy calm... Pale at my bedside burning,

A taper wastes away... From out my heart there surge

Swift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge

And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.

I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,

Meet mine... I see your smile... You speak to me alone:

My friend, my dearest friend... I love... I'm yours... your own.