Confession (to Alina Osipova, 1826) poem – Alexander Pushkin

A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation

I love you; though it makes me beat,

Though vain it seems, and melancholy –

Yet to this shameless, hapless folly

I’ll be confessing at your feet.

It ill becomes me: that I’m older,

Time I should be more sensible…

And yet the frivolous disorder

Fills every jitter of my soul.

Say you’ll be gone; I’m jaded, yawning;

You’re back; I’m sad, I suffer through –

Yet how can I be clear, from owning,

My angel, all my care for you!

When off the stairs your weightless footfall,

Your dress’s rustle, reaches me,

Your voice, as maidenly, as youthful –

I lose my senses instantly.

You smile at me; I’m glad, immensely;

Ignore me; and I’m sad, again;

Your pallid hand will recompense me

For the whole day of utter pain.

When you’re embroidering, or setting

Your eye on something fair, or letting

Your hair amuse you; I’m beguiled;

In silence, reddening, all forgetting

I watch you like a spellbound child.

But then how wretched my existence,

How desolate my jealous pain,

When you set out into the distance

To wander in the cold and rain;

And then your solitary grievings,

Or, in the corner, twosome talks,

Or twosome piano in the evenings,

Or twosome trips, or twosome walks…

Alina! just a little mercy –

I dare not even mention love:

For sins I have been guilty of,

My angel, of your care unworthy…

But feign it! All can be achieved

By that absorbing gaze, believe me…

Oh, it takes little to deceive me –

I cannot wait to be deceived!

translated by: Genia Gurarie

email: egurarie@princeton.edu

http://www.princeton.edu/~egurarie/

Copyright ©: 
Genia Gurarie

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