Eugene Onegin

by Alexander Pushkin

Take this collection Of sundry chapters as my suit: Half humorous, half pessimistic, Blending the plain and idealistic— Amusement’s yield, the careless fruit Of sleepless nights, light inspirations, Born of my green and withered years … The intellect’s cold observations, The heart’s reflections, writ in tears.

Another! No! In all creation There’s no one else whom I’d adore; The heavens chose my destination And made me thine for evermore! My life till now has been a token In pledge of meeting you, my friend; And in your coming, God has spoken, You‘ll be my guardian till the end….

The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand;

Spring rays at last begin to muster And chase from nearby hills the snow, Whose turbid streams flow down and cluster To inundate the fields below. And drowsy nature, smiling lightly, Now greets the dawning season brightly. The heavens sparkle now with blue; The still transparent woods renew Their downy green and start to thicken. The bee flies out from waxen cell To claim its meed from field and dell. The vales grow dry and colours quicken; The cattle low; and by the moon The nightingale pours forth its tune.

To love all ages yield surrender; But to the young its raptures bring A blessing bountiful and tender— As storms refresh the fields of spring. Neath passion’s rains they green and thicken, Renew themselves with joy, and quicken; And vibrant life in taking root Sends forth rich blooms and gives sweet fruit. But when the years have made us older, And barren age has shown its face, How sad is faded passion’s trace! … Thus storms in autumn, blowing colder, Turn meadows into marshy ground And strip the forest bare all round.

But let it be: it’s now too late For me to struggle at this hour; The die is cast: I’m in your power, And I surrender to my fate.

And you, small book, my constant labour, In whose bright company I’ve known All that a poet’s soul might cherish: Oblivion when tempests flourish, Sweet talk with friends, on which I’ve fed.