Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

So Lensky soared as he awaited His wedding day two weeks ahead; With joy his heart anticipated The mysteries of the marriage bed And love’s sweet crown of jubilations. But Hymen’s cares and tribulations, The frigid, yawning days to be, He never pictured once, not he. While we, the foes of Hymen’s banner, Perceive full well that home life means But one long string of dreary scenes— In Lafontaine’s* insipid manner. But my poor Lensky, deep at heart, Was born to play this very part. 51 Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving … Or so at least with joy he thought. Oh, blest is he who lives believing, Who takes cold intellect for naught, Who rests within the heart’s sweet places As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces, Or as, more tenderly I’d say, A butterfly in blooms of May; But wretched he who’s too far-sighted, Whose head is never fancy-stirred, Who hates all gestures, each warm word, As sentiments to be derided, Whose heart… experience has cooled And barred from being loved … or fooled!