(Пушкин, "Няне")
A friend of my days harsh,
My dove!
One in the wilderness of pine forests
Long, long ago you were waiting for me.
You are under the window of his front room
You grieve like a clock,
Constantly and slow spokes
In your wrinkled hands.
You look at the forgotten gates
To the black distant way;
The longing, the apprehension, care
They're squeezing your Breasts.
You're imagining it. . . . . . .