There is a heart in the world, where I live

More photos of the house and gardens.

While sitting in the gazebo, our hostess/guide extraordinaire shared this verse, which Pushkin penned in a guest book:

What is there in my name for you?
A Pushkin

What is there in my name for you?
It will die, like the sad noise
Of a wave, crashing on a distant shore,
Like a nocturnal noise in the mute forest.

On a memorial leaf
It will leave a dead trace, like
The pattern of a gravestone
In an unintelligible language.

What is in it? Long forgotten
In new and violent tribulations,
It will not give you soul
Pure, tender memories.

But on a day of sadness, in quiet,
Pronounce it as you yearn;
Say: there is a memory of me
There is a heart in the world, where I live. . .