I love you, miracle of Peter’s,
your stern and graceful countenance,
the broad Nevá’s imperious waters,
the granite blocks that line your banks,
the railings in cast-iron muster,
the melancholy of your nights,
transparent twilight, moonless lustre,
when, in my room, I use no lights
to write and read, when massed facades
and sleeping empty boulevards
are clear to see, and all afire
glitters the admiralty’s spire,
and, not permitting night to smother
the golden skies, there rushes through
a new dawn to replace the other,
and night gets half-an-hour’s due.

– Alexander Pushkin. excerpt from The Bronze Horseman: A Petersburg Tale

translated by Stanley Mitchell