Ah yes, he loved in such a fashion As men today no longer do; As only poets, mad with passion, Still love … because they’re fated to. He knew one constant source of dreaming, One constant wish forever gleaming, One ever-present cause for pain! And neither distance, nor the chain Of endless years of separation, Nor pleasure’s rounds, nor learning’s well, Nor foreign beauties’ magic spell, Nor yet the Muse, his true vocation, Could alter Lensky’s deep desire, His soul aflame with virgin fire.
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