My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearing, <br />Disturbs night's dreamy calm ... Pale at my bedside burning, <br />A taper wastes away ... From out my heart there surge <br />Stift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge. <br />And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing. <br />I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing, <br />Meet mine ... I see your smile ... You speak to me alone: <br />My friend, my dearest friend ... I'm your's ... your own.<br /><br />Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/night-155/
