May 26, 1828

Poem By Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Gift haphazard, unavailing,
Life, why were thou given me?
Why art thou to death unfailing
Sentenced by dark destiny?

Who in harsh despotic fashion
Once from Nothing called me out,
Filled my soul with burning passion
Vexed and shook my mind with doubt?

I can see no goal before me;
Empty heart and idle mind.
Life monotonously o'er me
Roars, and leaves a wound behind.

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Lyric Written In 1830

What means my name to you?...T'will die
As does the melancholy murmur
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The forest's hushed nocturnal sigh.