First Love

by Ivan Turgenev

Oh, sweet emotions, gentle harmony, goodness and peace of the softened heart, melting bliss of the first raptures of love, where are they, where are they?

belong to oneself—the whole savour of life lies in that,’

she had no great faith in him, and after listening to his outpourings, she would make him read Pushkin, as she said, to clear the air.

And now, when the shades of evening begin to steal over my life, what have I left fresher, more precious, than the memories of the storm—so soon over—of early morning, of spring?

Her whole life had been passed in the bitter struggle with daily want; she had known no joy, had not tasted the honey of happiness.