Oh, how, in the ending years
Is love more tender and superstitious —
O shine! O shine, my parting rays
Of the evening sun, of the last heart wishes!
The darkness cuts half of the sky;
And only the West has the roving glow,
Oh, time of evening, do not fly!
Enchantment, be prolonged and slow!
Let blood in veins has a thinner staff,
But a heart preserves the gentle passion —
O you, my last and tender love,
You are my bliss and desperation.
by Fyodor Tyutchev
Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, September, 1995