The Night

By Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,

Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,

By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,

Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood —

And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,

And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,

And smile to me, and hear I the voice:

My friend, my sweetest friend… I love… I'm yours… I'm yours!