My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearing,
Disturbs night’s dreamy calm … Pale at my bedside burning,
A taper wastes away … From out my heart there surge
Stift 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’m your’s … your own.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin