Say Not He Loves Me


Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

Say not he loves me as before, as truly, dearly

As once he did... Oh no! My life

He would destroy, he does destroy — though see I clearly

The trembling of the hand that holds the knife.

Resentment, anger, tears, a pain now fierce, now muffled —

I'm wounded, stung, and yet I love... He is

All of my life, but I... I do not live — I suffer...

How bitter is existence such as this!

As to a mortal foe, in dozes scant and meagre

The air I breathe he measures out.. Each breath

I take is painful, yet... I breathe, for fresh air eager...

But life ... life slowly ebbs... I cannot ward off death.


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