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An Invocation

 O if it's true that in the night,
When rest the living in their havens
And liquid rays of lunar light
Glide down on tombstones from the heavens,
O if it's true that still and bare
Are then the graves until aurora --
I call the shade, I wait for Laura:
To me, my friend, appear, appear!

Beloved shadow, come to me
As at our parting -- wintry, ashen
In your last minutes' agony;
Emerge in any form or fashion:
A distant star across the sphere,
A gentle sound, a puff of air or
The most appalling wraith of terror,
I care not how: appear, appear!.
.
I call you -- not to speak my scorn Of people whose ill-fated malice Has killed my friend, and not to learn The secrets of the nether-palace, And not because a doubt may tear My heart at times.
.
.
but as I suffer, I want to say that still I love her, That still I'm yours: appear, appear!

Poem by Alexander Pushkin
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