...Cold and regretless shalt thou view this sphere,
Where crimes inseparable from fate,
Where beauty only blossoms to grow sear,
Where all is miserable, where, without fear
No one can either love or hate.
Knowst thou, Tamára, what is mortal love?
A febrile movement of the blood!
Years roll awaythe pulse can scarcely move,
Loves witherd branches cease to bud.
Who can resist new beautys luring bait?
Who, parting, never shed a tear?
Who can withstand the tedium of fate,
The weariness of all things here?
No, my beloved, believe, tis not thy lot
To perish in a living grave,
In silence, languish on this narrow spot,
Of brutal jealousy the slave....
The Demon
written byMikhail Lermontov
© Mikhail Lermontov