Remorse
By Mikhail Lermontov
Why there's the insurgent murmurs,
Reproach for the destine's power?
It was so good for you, and, obviously,
You by yourself has made your suffering!
And mindless, you had owned once
A pure soul and frank-saying,
All free from the universal dark,
You lost that inappreciable treasure.
The fire of the intial love
You tried to rouse in her heart,
But later you were vain to love,
Getting the aim so sad enough.
You scorned all through; among the people
You stay as an oak-tree in desert,
And tears of the love so innocent
Couldn't shake your soul statuesque.
God doesn't give twice any joy,
Making delight from mutual passion.
Without solace, with lanquor,
Your life will pass, as youth had ended.
Her kiss you will find there in lips
Of a lying beauty, fine in face,
But every moment you'll seek
The features of the first thing, trace.
So go, go, bow to knees
Of her and beg her pardon,
Or you would rather make a deal
With hell in yourself, peace denying.
Then you will love, of course, at time,
But couldn't return the previous feel,
You couldn't replace your first forfeit
Forever, that's your destiny.