Love poetry by the greatest Russian classical poets
If you care about love poetry, Russian poets are ready to take you on journey that’s unlike anything you’ve seen before. A land where true feelings have never been stifled, running unchecked to their natural extremes, Russia provided a perfect ground for the poetic genius (which could survive the harshness of the political regime) to grow into an unparalleled acme of creativity. The list below is by no means comprehensive, but it should at least give you a taste of what a tremendous universe of love poetry is hidden within the beautiful labyrinth of Russian.
Alexander Pushkin
Alexander Pushkin is the most famous Russian poet in the world. Widely considered as the inventor of modern Russian language, he is also thought by some to have been the prophet who expressed universal truths that go way beyond poetry, touching upon every aspect of human life. While some of his work does dabble in topics like power theory, macroeconomics, and politics, it is undoubtedly Pushkin’s love poetry that is most known to and adored by the native speakers of Russian.
While no English translation can render the original magic of Pushkin’s verse (if you don’t believe us, ask Nabokov who spent a lot of time and effort translating Pushkin’s masterpieces), we are trying to at least narrow the gap and bring some of his best work closer to the English-speaking audience. The following translations aim to preserve as much of the original meaning as possible, even if this means compromising the rhyme occasionally (in Pushkin’s poems, every line rhymes with at least one other).
“I Remember a Wonderful Moment…”
I remember a wonderful moment,
Before me, you appeared so bright,
As a fleeting, shining vision,
A pure beauty, a radiant light.
In hopeless sadness and in sorrow,
Amid the bustle and the strife,
Your tender voice, it echoed softly,
Your dear features filled my life.
Years passed. The storm of rebellion
Scattered all my dreams away,
I forgot your voice so tender,
And your heavenly face so gay.
In the dark of dreary confinement,
My days dragged on without cheer,
Without divinity, without inspiration,
Without tears, without life, without love near.
My soul awoke with fresh elation:
And there again, you did appear,
As a fleeting, shining vision,
A pure beauty, a presence clear.
My heart beats with a new rapture,
And for it, once again revived
Are divinity, inspiration,
Life, and tears, and love, all thrived.
1825
“I Loved You Once: Perhaps That Love…”
I loved you once: perhaps that love
Within my soul has not quite died;
But let it not distress you more,
I do not wish to make you sigh.
I loved you silently, hopelessly,
By shyness and by jealousy set aflame;
I loved you so sincerely, so tenderly,
As God grant you be loved by another’s name.
1829
“Confession”
I love you still, though it brings rage,
Though it’s a shame and wasted sorrow,
In this foolish, painful maze,
At your feet, my truth I borrow!
It doesn’t suit my age or reason…
Time for me to grow more wise!
But I know by every sign,
Love’s sickness dwells within my eyes:
Without you, boredom drags my day;
With you, I’m sad, I endure;
And, having no strength, I wish to say,
My angel, how I love you pure!
When I hear your light steps nearing,
Or the rustle of your dress,
Or your voice, so chaste and cheering,
Suddenly, I lose all sense.
Your smile – my comfort ever;
Your turn away – my sorrow sore;
For a day’s torture – the reward
Is your pale hand once more.
When you sit, bent over stitches,
With eyes and curls lowered down,
I, in silent admiration,
Gaze at you like a child, spellbound!
Shall I tell you of my grief,
My jealous woes, my sorrow’s sighs,
When you wander off in rain,
Or hide your tears from prying eyes?
Your lonely tears and secret talks,
Your trips to Opocheka land,
Your evening music, gentle walks…
Alina, pity, understand!
I do not dare to ask for love,
For maybe, due to my sins, my angel,
I’m not deserving love above.
But pretend! That look so sweet,
Can express so much delight!
Ah, to deceive me is not hard…
I gladly choose such blinding sight!
1826
“The Less We Love Her, The Easier We Please”
The less we love her, the easier to gain,
And so, more surely, she’s ensnared,
In the seductive, captivating chain.
Cold-hearted vice once gained its fame
As a master of the love game,
Boasting loudly everywhere,
Enjoying without a care.
But this once noble pastime,
Fit for old apes of ancient time,
Celebrated by the grand old days,
With their red heels and towering wigs’ praise,
Now their famed lore does decay.
From “Eugene Onegin”
“The Burned Letter”
Farewell, love’s letter! She commanded, so I part.
How long I hesitated! How long I did delay,
My hand reluctant to consign
All my joys to fire’s sway!
But enough, the time has come. Burn, love’s letter, burn!
I am ready; my soul listens not. The flames now churn…
A moment! They blaze! They flare – a light smoke,
Twisting, vanishes with my plea, evoking.
The faithful seal now lost,
The wax melts, boiling… O providence, aloft!
It’s done! The darkened pages curl in fiery flight,
On their light ash, the treasured script
Glimmers… My heart tightens. Dear ash,
My poor consolation in fate so grim,
Stay forever on my sorrowed chest’s brim.
1825
“The Beauty”
In her, all’s harmony, all’s wonder,
Above the world, above its strife;
She rests demurely, never under,
In solemn beauty, lives her life.
She gazes all around her sphere:
No rival matches her, no friend;
Our pale beauties disappear
In her bright radiance without end.
Wherever you are rushing on,
Be it a tryst of love you’re keeping,
Whatever dream your heart has drawn,
You stop, surprised, your steps are creeping.
With reverence, you stand in awe
Before the holiness of beauty,
A pious veneration raw,
As if you’ve found your sacred duty.
1832
“Spring, Spring, the Season of Love”
Spring, spring, the season of love,
How hard it is, your coming near,
What languid stirrings start to rove
Within my soul, my blood, so clear…
How foreign joy feels to my heart…
All that rejoices and gleams bright,
Brings only boredom, makes me part
With gloom and restless aching sight.
Return to me the snow and blizzard,
The winter’s lengthy, darksome night.
1827
“Talisman”
Where the sea forever splashes
On deserted, rocky shores,
Where the moon more warmly flashes
In the evening twilight’s hours,
Where in harems, lost in pleasure,
Days are spent by Muslim men,
There a sorceress, with leisure,
Gave to me a talisman.
And with tenderness, she told me:
“Keep my talisman with care:
In it, magic forces hold thee!
It is given with love’s prayer.
From disease and from the grave,
In storm, in wild hurricane,
Though it tries, it cannot save
You, my dear, from death’s domain.
And the riches of the East
It will never bring to you,
Nor will prophet’s followers, least,
Bow to your strength and accrue.
And it won’t transport you back
From these distant, foreign lands
To the north, from southern track,
To your homeland’s welcome hands…
But when eyes with treacherous charm
Suddenly bewitch you so,
Or a kiss without love’s warmth
Presses in the night’s shadow—
Dearest friend! From wrong and strife,
From new wounds that scar your heart,
From betrayal, loss in life,
My talisman will guard.”
1827
“Her Eyes”
She is lovely—just between us—
The courtly knights all fear her might,
And with southern stars, we deem us
To compare her eyes in verses bright,
Those Circassian eyes she wields
Boldly, they burn with life’s fierce fire;
But, confess it, are they fields
As the eyes of my Olenina inspire?
What a thoughtful genius lies
In those eyes, so pure, so mild,
How much simple childlike ties,
How much languor, dreaming wild!..
She casts them down with Lely’s grace—
In them modest triumph’s seen;
She lifts them—angel from holy place,
Raphael’s own celestial queen.
1828
“Black Shawl”
I gaze, like mad, at the black shawl,
My cold soul tormented by pain’s call.
When I was young and easy to sway,
I loved a Greek maiden, passionate, gay;
The charming girl caressed me well,
But soon I lived through a day of hell.
One night I gathered my friends for cheer;
A wretched Jew knocked, drawing near;
“Your friends are feasting,” (whispered he)
“But your Greek maiden’s faithless, you see.”
I gave him gold and cursed his name,
And called my loyal servant in shame.
We rode swiftly, no pity in me,
Compassion silent, wild and free.
As soon as her doorstep came in sight,
My eyes went dark, all strength took flight…
Alone I entered her secret room,
The Armenian kissed her in love’s bloom.
No light I saw; my steel flashed out…
The scoundrel couldn’t end his bout.
I trampled his headless corpse, blood-strewn,
And stared at the girl, pale as the moon.
I remember her pleas, the flowing blood…
The Greek girl perished, and so did love!
From her dead head, I took the black shawl,
Silently wiped my bloody steel’s fall.
At twilight, my servant cast their forms
Into the Danube’s deep, cold storms.
Since then, no beauty’s eyes I kiss,
Since then, no night of joy or bliss.
I gaze, like mad, at the black shawl,
My cold soul tormented by pain’s call.
1820
“Awakening”
Dreams, dreams,
Where is your sweetness?
Where is your gleam,
Night’s gentle neatness?
Gone is the joy,
The dream’s sweet ploy,
And now alone,
In darkness deep,
I am awake.
Around my bed,
The silent night.
In a moment, fled,
In a moment, dead,
Gone is the flight
Of love’s sweet dreams.
My soul still yearns,
It catches the gleams
Of dream returns.
Love, oh love,
Hear my plea:
Send me again
Your visions to see,
And in the morn,
Drunk with delight,
Let me die,
In endless night.
1816
“I Thought My Heart Had Forgotten…”
I thought my heart had forgotten
The easy art of suffering,
I said: the past is gone,
It won’t return, won’t bring
Delight or sorrow, dreams so light,
But now again they take flight
Before the mighty power of beauty’s might.
1835
“To Natalia”
I too have come to know
What Cupid’s arrow feels like;
My heart, it’s all aglow,
I confess—I’m love’s tyke!
Once happiness flew by,
Free of love’s heavy sigh,
I lived and sang carefree,
In theaters and at balls,
At gatherings in halls,
As light as a summer’s breeze;
I laughed at Cupid’s aims,
Caricatures I’d frame
Of the fairer sex with ease;
But laugh in vain I did,
For I too have been hit,
I too have gone insane.
All my laughter, freedom’s bliss,
Now tossed aside like this,
From a stoic to a lover I’m switched!
Saw Natalia’s beauty, bright,
My heart now holds Cupid tight.
Natalia, I confess,
By you I am possessed,
For the first time I’m in distress,
By a woman’s charms obsessed.
All day long, whatever I do,
It’s only you, it’s only you;
Night comes, and in empty dreams,
Your face it seems,
I see you there, so fair, with me,
Breathing softly, silently,
Your white bosom’s gentle rise,
With snowy purity it vies,
Half-closed eyes, the night’s silent bride—
My spirit, in joy, does reside!
I am alone in the bower,
With her… a virginal flower,
I tremble, I grow weak, I cower…
And awake… to find the gloom,
Around my lonely room.
I sigh deeply, sleep lazily
Flies away on dreamy wings.
Passion grows with force and might,
Love tires me every hour,
My mind seeks an aim in sight,
But what? No lover will tell outright.
I’ll explain in my own way:
All lovers seek what they don’t know,
It’s their nature, so I say!
Wrapped in a cloak, hat askew,
I’d like, as shadows grew,
To take Anuta’s gentle hand,
Explain love’s sorrow, make her understand,
Declare her mine, in sweet command.
I’d like you, Nazora dear,
To try to keep me near,
With a look so soft, so clear.
Or be Rosina’s guardian old,
Fate’s stepson, gray and cold,
In a cloak and with a wig,
With a bold, fiery hand,
To hold a snowy, full bosom grand…
But no… I can’t cross the sea,
Though I’m in love profoundly,
I’m far from you, despair surrounds me.
But Natalia, you don’t know,
Who your tender lover is,
You don’t understand yet,
Why he does not dare hope, even a bit.
Listen now: I own no harem,
No Arab, Turk, I am not them.
Nor a polite Chinese, a rude American,
You can’t mistake me for those men.
I’m not a German with a cap,
With a beer mug on his lap,
With a cigarette in his teeth,
No, none of these am I beneath.
Not a cuirassier with a long sword,
I don’t love the battle’s roar:
A blade, a saber, halberd,
Do not burden my hand for war.
— Who am I, this loving fool? —
Look at the lofty walls around,
Where eternal silence does abound;
Look at the barred windows, lighted lamps…
Look, Natalia! — I’m… a monk!
1813
“Will You Forgive My Jealous Dreams…”
Will you forgive my jealous dreams,
The madness of my love’s streams?
You are true: why then, it seems,
You always frighten my heart’s schemes?
Surrounded by admirers’ throng,
Why to all do you appear so kind,
And give each one the empty song
Of your wondrous glance, so gentle, so resigned?
You possess me, cloud my reason,
Secure in my love’s despair,
You don’t see when, in their passion’s season,
I’m alone and silent there,
Tormented by lonely distress;
No word, no glance, from you, my dear…
If I wish to flee, with fear,
Your eyes don’t follow, don’t caress.
If some beauty starts a sly
And double-meaning talk with me,
You’re calm, your cheerful rebuke’s glee
Kills me, shows no love reply.
Tell me why: my eternal rival,
Finding us alone, in the dim hour,
Why does he greet you with a sly smile?
What is he to you? What right has he,
To turn pale, and jealously?
In the discreet twilight hour,
Without your mother, alone, undressed,
Why must you see him as a guest?
But I am loved… Alone with me,
You are so tender! Your kisses, fiery,
Your words of love are sincere, so full of soul!
You laugh at my suffering whole;
But I am loved, I understand you,
My dear friend, don’t torture me, I implore:
You don’t know how deeply I adore,
You don’t know how much I endure.
1823
“Night”
My voice for you is tender, sweet,
It stirs the dark night’s silence deep.
Beside my bed, a candle burns;
My poems flow, they twist, they churn,
Streams of love, they run to you.
In the darkness, your eyes I view,
They shine at me, they smile, they speak:
My friend, my tender friend… I love… your cheek…
1823
“Desire”
Slowly drag my days along,
Each moment in my heart prolongs
All the sorrows of love’s throng
And disturbs my madness strong.
But I am silent; I do not cry;
I shed my tears; they soothe my sigh;
My soul, captured by its grief,
Finds in them a bitter relief.
Life’s hour! Fly, I do not grieve,
Disappear into the night’s weave;
I cherish my love’s torment,
Let me die, but let love be spent!
1816