My rendition of Pushkin's classic poem ("To ..."). You can read the original here.
A wondrous moment I recall:
Before me stood your sweet allure,
Ephem’ral vision to enthrall,
O genius mine of beauty pure.
In hopeless woe, grief without choice,
In boist’rous vanity’s alarm,
Resounded long a gentle voice,
And linger’d long your features’ charm.
Years passed. Storms’ mutinous noise
Dispell’d the dreams of previous sleep,
And I forgot your gentle voice,
Your features’ heaven–forged deep.
Alone, in gloom’s most still stagnation,
So quietly dragg’d my days in strife,
Bereft of creed, of imagination,
Bereft of tears, of love, of life.
My soul woke from behind this wall:
By me again — your sweet allure,
Ephem’ral vision to enthrall,
O genius mine of beauty pure.
To embliss’d heart’s each palpitation,
Now resurrected with joy so rife,
Arose both creed and imagination,
Anew then tears and love and life.