But where's distress? Commiseration?
And where the tearstains? . . . Not a trace!
There's wrath alone upon that face . . .
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And, maybe, secret apprehension
Lest
An episode too slight to mention,
The tale that my Onegin knew ....
But he departs, his hopes in tatters,
And damns his folly in these matters
And plunging into deep despond,
He once again rejects the
And he recalled with grim emotion,
Behind his silent study door,
How wicked spleen had once before
Pursued him through the world's commotion,
Had seized him by the collar then,
And locked him in a darkened den.
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Once more he turned to books and sages.
He read his Gibbon and Rousseau;
Chamfort, Manzoni, Herder's pages;
Madame de Stal, Bichat, Tissot.
The sceptic Bayle he quite devoured,
The works of Fontenelle he scoured;*
He even read some Russians too,
Nor did he scorn the odd review
Those journals where each modern Moses
Instructs us in a moral way
Where I'm so much abused today,
But where such madrigals and roses
I used to meet with now and then:
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And yetalthough his eyes were reading,
His thoughts had wandered far apart;
Desires, dreams, and sorrows pleading
Had crowded deep within his heart.
Between the printed lines lay hidden
Quite other lines that rose unbidden
Before his gaze. And these alone
Absorbed his soul... as he was shown:
The heart's dark secrets and traditions,
The mysteries of its ancient past;
Disjointed dreamsobscure and vast;
Vague threats and rumours, premonitions;
A drawn-out tale of fancies grand,
And letters in a maiden's hand.
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