‘This pomp, Onegin, these excesses, The trumpery of hateful days, My high society successes, My fashionable house, soirées, What do they mean? Oh, I’d surrender At once this masquerade, this splendour, With all its glitter, noise and smoke For one wild garden and a book, For our poor home, to me the dearest, For all those places I recall, Where I beheld you first of all, And for the humble churchyard near us, Where now a cross and branches shade The grave where my poor nurse is laid…
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