Night
A
Aleksandr Sergeyeviç Puşkin
0
Altın Yaprak
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.
Bu metin şairin özgün dilinde (Rusça) değil, bir çeviridir.
Kamu malı: şairin ölümünün üzerinden 70 yıldan fazla geçti.
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