I love you though with rage I seethe,
Though it is shameful, futile wholly,
And to my miserable folly
I am confessing at your feet!
Yes, at my age it’s unbecoming…
It’s time I wisened up enough!
But signs are certainly forthcoming
Of sickness in my soul called love:
Without you, dear, I‘m bored and yawning;
With you, I‘m sad and lying low.
I cannot take more of this yearning:
My angel, I do love you so!
When from the parlor, I imagine,
I hear your steps or rustling dress
Or voice so innocent and virgin,
I lose my mind, I must confess.
You look and smile — I gladly watch you;
You look and frown — I’m sorely sad;
My prize for one whole day of torture
Is but your pale and weightless hand.
When on a tambour, having lowered
Your eyes and locks, you’re easing forward
To give the work your thoughtful mind,
I’m docile, moved; I can’t be bothered
And watch in wonder like a child!
Should I explain my grief unfettered
And jealous misery the day
When out to stroll in nasty weather
You’re bent on going, come what may?
Your crying when you’re by your lonesome,
Our chats in private, one-on-one,
Trips to Opochka in a foursome,
And nightly piano playing fun?
Alina, I implore, have mercy!
I can’t make bold to claim your love.
My angel, I have sinned enough:
Perhaps, of no one’s love I’m worthy!
But make-believe! Please, all I need
Is just one glance that makes things lovely!
You could deceive me even bluntly!
And I am game for self-deceit!

Translated by Yuri Menis

A.S. Pushkin. Confession (“I love you though with rage I seethe...”). Translated by Yuri Menis // Alexander Pushkin. Collected Works: Parallel Russian Text and English Translation.
© Электронная публикация — РВБ, 2022—2024. Версия 2.1 от 30 ноября 2023 г.