Page:Poems, Alexander Pushkin, 1888.djvu/85



THE OUTCAST.

a rainy autumn evening

Into desert places went a maid;

And the secret fruit of unhappy love

In her trembling hands she held.

All was still: the hills and the woods

Asleep in the darkness of the night.

And her searching glances

In terror about she cast.

And on this babe, the innocent,

Her glance she paused with a sigh:

Asleep thou art, my child, my grief.

Thou knowest not my sadness.

Thine eyes will ope, and tho' with longing,

To my breast shalt no more cling.

No kiss for thee to-morrow

From thine unhappy mother.