’To me, Onegin, all these splendours, This weary tinselled life of mine, This homage that the great world tenders, My stylish house where princes dine— Are empty. … I’d as soon be trading This tattered life of masquerading, This world of glitter, fumes, and noise, For just my books, the simple joys Of our old home, its walks and flowers, For all those haunts that I once knew … Where first, Onegin, I saw you; For that small churchyard’s shaded bowers, Where over my poor nanny now there stands a cross beneath a bough.
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