Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev (5 December 1803 – 27 July 1873 / Ovstug)
All Day She Quiet Lay
All day she quiet lay, lost in a trance,
The closing shadows all of her embracing...
The madcap rain of summer frisked and pranced,
At leaves it drummed, down garden paths went racing.
And slowly, slowly she revived and sought
To hear its voice, its warm and merry patter.
Withdrawn she lay, plunged deep in conscious thought,
And listened to the rushing, singing water.
Then suddenly she sighed and spoke; I heard...
(I was alive, alive through force of habit)
The softly whispered, simple, broken words:
"O how I loved it all, O how I loved it!"
You loved... To love so well none ever durst...
Then, even such love fades, to be it ceases...
To watch you die, and live! How did my heart not burst,
Not break, O God, into a thousand pieces!
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