By Pushkin

What is there for thee in my name?
For it will die, like the sad slapping
Of waves, at a far coastline lapping,
Like cries at nighttime on the plain.

On mem’ry’s page the trace it burned
Is dead – the unfamiliar direction,
The pattern of a tomb inscription
In the language foreign and unlearned.

What’s in it now? So long forgot, In turmoils new and wild surrender,
Unto thy soul it will give nought,
No recollections pure and tender.

But, on a day of silent grief,
Pronounce it then; thy want confiding,
Say this: A mem’ry of me keeps,
There’s one heart, somewhere, I abide in.