Confession. Alexander Pushkin

Oh, I love you, I’m mad with rage,
Albeit it’s shame and hopeless trouble,
And I confess my foolish ruffles,
I’m sitting near you, like page.
It doesn’t suit me, frankly speaking,
It’s time I have to be more keen,
I recognize all sings of fleeting
Disease of soul. Love, I mean.
And I feel sad with you — I’m quiet,
I’m bored without you — I yawn,
I have a great and strong desire
To say, my Angel, I’m all yours.
And when I hear your light footfalls,
Or virgin voice, or noise of dress
In drawing — room before a gay ball,
Then suddenly I lose my sense.
You smile to me — it’s a joyance,
You turn away — I’m despondent,
But for the day of my annoyance
My best reward — your pale hand.
And when you are so conscientious,
Bend carelessly with attention
Aloft the tambour, I enjoy
Your curls and eyes and your attraction
With tender silence, like a boy.
O, may I tell about sorrows,
My distresses and jealous grieve,
When you are going to stroll.
I take your last and sudden leave.
And piano in the quiet sundowns,
And fascinating tete-a-tete,
And journeys to a little town,
And after weeping you look sad.
Alina! Take a pity on me!
I can’t require your delight,
I don’t worth your love, your sights,
My Angel, for my sins so paltry!
But feign, this glance so nice and deep
Can show everything so finely,
You easily can mystify me,
I’m glad myself to be deceived.

Translated by Slobodyanik Lada