by Alexander Pushkin
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 uncrossable 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.