Пора, мой друг, пора! покоя сердце просит — Летят за днями дни, и каждый час уносит Частичку бытия, а мы с тобой вдвоем Предполагаем жить... И глядь … - Alexander Pushkin

How sad, however, if we're given
Our youth as something to betray,
And what if youth in turn is driven
To cheat on us, each hour, each day,
If our most precious aspirations,
Our freshest dreams, imaginations
In fast succession have decayed,
As leaves, in putrid autumn, fade.
It is too much to see before one
Nothing but dinners in a row,
Behind the seemly crowd to go,
Regarding life as mere decorum,
Having no common views to share,
Nor passions that one might declare.

Thus heaven's gift to us is this:
That habit takes the place of bliss.

Ever peaceful be you slumber
Though your days were few in number
On this earth-spite took its toll-
Yet shall heaven have your soul
With pure love we did regard you
For your loved one did we guard you
But you came not to the groom
Only to a chill dark tomb