I'll cease one day to be a poet
When some new demon seizes me;
And scorning then Apollo's ire
To humble prose I'll bend my lyre:
A novel in the older vein
Will claim what happy days remain.
No secret crimes or passions gory
Shall I in grim detail portray,
But simply tell as best I may
A Russian family's age-old story,
A tale of lovers and their lot,
Of ancient customs unforgot.
14
I'll give a father's simple greetings,
An aged uncle'sin my book;
I'll show the children's secret meetings
By ancient lindens near the brook,
Their jealous torments, separation,
Their tears of reconciliation;
I'll make them quarrel yet again,
But lead them to the altar then.
I'll think up speeches tenderhearted,
Recall the words of passion's heat,
Those words with whichbefore the feet
Of some fair mistress long departed
My heart and tongue once used to soar,
But which today I use no more.
15
Tatyana, O my dear Tatyana!
I shed with you sweet tears too late;
Relying on a tyrant's honour,
You've now resigned to him your fate.
My dear one, you are doomed to perish;
But first in dazzling hope you nourish
And summon forth a sombre bliss,
You learn life's sweetness . . . feel its kiss,
And drink the draught of love's temptations,
As phantom daydreams haunt your mind:
On every side you seem to find
Retreats for happy assignations;
While everywhere before your eyes
Your fateful tempter's figure lies.
16
The ache of love pursues Tatyana; .
She takes a garden path and sighs,
A sudden faintness comes upon her,
She can't go on, she shuts her eyes;
Her bosom heaves, her cheeks are burning,
Scarce-breathing lips grow still with yearning,
Her ears resound with ringing cries,
