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ARINA | morning of the bride
Why, when your guileless girlish chatter
Drifts from next door your airy tread,
Your rustling dress, my senses scatter
And I completely lose my head.
You smile - I flush with exultation;
You turn away - I'm plunged in gloom,
Your pallid hand is compensation
For a whole day of fancied doom.
Arine! I ask but to be pitied,
I do not dare to plead for love;
Love, for the sins I have committed,
I am perhaps unworthy of.
But make believe! Your gaze, dear elf,
Is fit to conjure with, believe me!
Ah, it is easy to deceive me!...
I long to be deceived myself!.
(A. S. Pushkin)
Drifts from next door your airy tread,
Your rustling dress, my senses scatter
And I completely lose my head.
You smile - I flush with exultation;
You turn away - I'm plunged in gloom,
Your pallid hand is compensation
For a whole day of fancied doom.
Arine! I ask but to be pitied,
I do not dare to plead for love;
Love, for the sins I have committed,
I am perhaps unworthy of.
But make believe! Your gaze, dear elf,
Is fit to conjure with, believe me!
Ah, it is easy to deceive me!...
I long to be deceived myself!.
(A. S. Pushkin)
Ekaterinburg, Russia
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