34 By thoughts of fame and freedom smitten, Vladimir’s stormy soul grew wings; What odes indeed he might have written, But Olga didn’t read the things. How oft have tearful poets chances To read their works before the glances Of those they love? Good sense declares That no reward on earth compares. How blest, shy lover, to be granted To read to her for whom you long: The very object of your song, A beauty languid and enchanted! Ah, blest indeed … although it’s true, She may be dreaming not of you.
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