Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Incantation

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O, if it’s true that in the night,

When all the living slumber, tranquil,

And shining moonbeams from the heights

Glide lightly on the granite gravestones,

O, if it’s true that at that hour

The quiet tombs are standing vacant –

I hail a shade, I wait for Leila:

Find me, my friend, come here, come here!

Appear, beloved shadow, ghost,

Just as you were before our parting,

As pale, as cold as winter’s frost,

Contorted by your final torment.

Come, whether like a distant star,

A muffled sound or gentle wafting,

Or like a horrid vision lofting,

I don’t much care, come here, come here!...

I call you, not so I may blame

Those brutal people whose malignance

Destroyed my friend, nor as a game

To steal, reveal the grave’s enigmas.

And not because I’m sometimes seared

By doubts… but rather, in my mourning

I want to say, I still adore you,

And I’m still yours: come here, come here!