How superstitiously we love,
How tenderly towards aur days declining.....
Beam brightly, brightly, farewell light of love,
Of our last love, in evening heavens shining.
Now half the shadowed sky is cloaked in night,
And only in the West a fitful gleaming
Still holds, still holds the spell of evening light.....
Ah, linger, linger yet, enchanting evening.
What if the blood runs poorer in the veins,
The heart is no less rich in tenderness.....
Ah, my last love! Thou art both bliss and pain.
And joy - and hopelessness.
Fyodor Tyutchev (1803 - 1873), Russia.