In the silence of the gardens, spring, in the darkness of night,
Sings over rozoyu eastern nightingale.
But Rose does not feel nice, not heed,
And a love anthem ranges and dormant.
Is not it you sing for hladnoy Beauty?
Come to your senses, of the poet, to aspire to you?
She does not listen, He does not feel the poet;
You look, it blooms; cries out - no answer.
