Day's rain is done. The rainy mist of night <br />Spreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing, <br />And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing, <br />The moon comes up with hidden light. <br />All in my soul drags me to dark surrender. <br />There, far away, rises the moon in splendour. <br />There all the air is drunk with evening heat, <br />There move the waters in a sumptuous heat, <br />And overhead the azure skies... <br />It is the hour. From high hills she has gone <br />To sea-shores flooding in the waves' loud cries; <br />There, where the holy cliffs arise, <br />Now she sits melancholy and alone... <br />Alone... Before her none is weeping, fretting, <br />None, on his knees, is kissing her, forgetting; <br />Alone... To no one's lips is she betraying <br />Her shoulders, her wet lips, her snow-white bosom. <br /> <br />No one is worthy of her heavenly love. <br />'Tis true?... Alone... You weep... I do not move. <br /> <br />Yet if...<br /><br />Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/day-s-rain-is-done/
