Confession

I

VE

OU - I love you, e'en as

Rage at myself for this obsession,

And as I make my shamed confession,

Despairing at your feet I lie.

I know,

I know - It ill becomes me,

I am too old, time to be wise ...

But how? ...

This love - it overcomes me,

A sickness this in passion's guise.

When you are near I'm filled with sadness,

When far,

I yawn, for life's a bore.

I must pour out this love, this madness,

There's nothing that I long for more!

When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,

Your girlish voice I hear, when

Light step sounds in the parlour - strangely,

I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.

Your frown - and I'm in pain,

I languish;

You smile - and joy defeats distress;

My one reward for a day's

Comes when your, pale hand, love,

I kiss.

When you sit, bent over your sewing,

Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing.

About your face, with tendernessI like childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing With love, in my gaze a caress.

Shall I my jealousy and

Describe, my bitterness and

When by yourself on some bleak

Off on a distant walk you go,

Or with another spend the evening And, with him near, the piano play,

Or for Opochka leave, or,

Weep and in silence, pass the day?

Alina!

Pray relent have mercy!

I dare not ask for love - with

My many sins, both great and small,

I am perhaps of love unworthy!

But if feigned love, if you

Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,

For happily would I, believe me,

Deceive myself if but I could!