Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837)

SLEEP I cannot find, nor light:

Everywhere is dark and slumber,

Only weary tickings number

The slow hours of the night.

Parca, jabbering, woman-fashion,

Sleeping night, without compassion,

Life, who stirs like rustling mice,

Why encage me in thy vise?

Why the whispering insistence,—

Art thou but the pale persistence

Of a day departed twice?

What black failures dost thou reckon?

Dost thou prophesy or beckon?

I would know whence thou art sprung,

I would study thy dark tongue…