To…
by Alexander Pushkin
Don’t ask, why with the gloomy thought
Among the festive joys I’m darkened,
Why I’m glaring a lot,
The sweety dream of life denying.
Don’t ask, why with the cold soul
I’ve lost desire to be loved,
And never ever could return I
To it once more – that love’s not love.
Who’s got the luck, won’t have it more –
The pleasure is for only moment.
And from your youth, your leisure, joy
The sadness will remain, as common…
1817
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