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O, how our love is murderous

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev 1803 ( Ovstug near Bryansk, Oryol Governorate) – 1873 (Saint Petersburg)

O, how our love is murderous,
The dearer something is to us
The surer are we to destroy it
In passion's savage blindness!
Was it so long ago you said,
Proud of your victory: she's mine . . .
Barely a year gone - stop and think,
What has remained of her?
Where are the roses in her cheeks,
Her smiling lips and shining eyes?
Rivers of scalding tears
Have scorched and burned them all.
Do you remember how you met,
Your very first, your fateful t?te-?-t?te;
Her gaze enchanting and her words,
Her laughter --lively, child-like?
What have you now? Where is it all?
Was it a lasting dream?
Alas, like northern summers,
It was a fleeting guest!
For her your love was naught but
Fate's awful judgment.
It weighed upon her life,
With undeserved shame.
A life of sacrifice, a life of trials!
Deep in her soul
She cherished memories . . .
Yet even they've betrayed her.
And earthly life has turned against her,
Its charms have disappeared. . .
The surging crowd's ground in the dirt
All that had flourished in her heart.
And what like ashes has she gathered
After her long torment?
Pain, the cruel pain of bitterness,
Pain without cease and without tears!
O, how our love is murderous,
The dearer something is to us
The surer are we to destroy it
In passion's savage blindness!

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Submitted on May 13, 2011

1:10 min read

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev (Russian: Фёдор Иванович Тютчев, Pre-Reform orthography: Ѳедоръ Ивановичъ Тютчевъ) was a Russian poet and diplomat.  more…

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