Alexander Pushkin (1799–1837)

HERE is the long-bided hour: the labor of years is accomplished.

Why should this sadness unplumbed secretly weigh on my heart?

Is it, my work being done, I stand like a laborer, useless,

One who has taken his pay, alien to unwonted tasks?

Is it the work I regret, the silent companion of midnight,

Friend of the golden-haired Dawn, friend of the gods of the hearth?