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.
21
When scarce a boy and not yet knowing
The torment of a heart in flames,
He'd been entranced by Olga growing
And fondly watched her girlhood games;
Beneath a shady park's protection
He'd shared her frolics with affection.
Their fathers, who were friends, had plans
To read one day their marriage banns.
And deep within her rustic bower,
Beneath her parents' loving gaze,
She blossomed in a maiden's ways
A valley-lily come to flower
Off where the grass grows dense and high,
Unseen by bee or butterfly.
22
She gave the poet intimations
Of youthful ecstasies unknown,
And, filling all his meditations,
Drew forth his flute's first ardent moan.
Farewell, #62038; golden games' illusion!
He fell in love with dark seclusion,
With stillness, stars, the lonely night,
And with the moon's celestial light
That lamp to which we've consecrated
A thousand walks in evening's calm
And countless tearsthe gentle balm
Of secret torments unabated .... T
oday, though, all we see in her
Is just another lantern's blur.
23
Forever modest, meek in bearing,
As gay as morning's rosy dress,
Like any poetopen, caring,
As sweet as love's own soft caress;
Her sky-blue eyes, devoid of guile,
Her flaxen curls, her lovely smile,
Her voice, her form, her graceful stance,
Oh, Olga's every trait.... But glance
In any novelyou'll discover
Her portrait there; it's charming, true;
I liked it once no less than you,
But round it boredom seems to hover;
And so, dear reader, grant me pause
