Eugene Onegin

Must occupy my pen for now;

I gave my word, but, Lord,

 I vow, Retracting it would suit me better.

I know that gentle Parny's* lays

Are out of fashion nowadays.

30

Bard of The Feasts* and languid sorrow,

If you were with me still, my friend,

Immodestly I'd seek to borrow

Your genius for a worthy end:

I'd have you with your art refashion

A maiden's foreign words of passion

And make them magic songs anew.

Where are you? Come! I bow to you

And yield my rights to love's translation. . . .

But there beneath the Finnish sky,

Amid those mournful crags on high,

His heart grown deaf to commendation

Alone upon his way he goes

And does not heed my present woes.

31

Tatyana's letter lies beside me,

And reverently I guard it still;

I read it with an ache inside me

And cannot ever read my fill.

Who taught her then this soft surrender,

This careless gift for waxing tender,

This touching whimsy free of art,

This raving discourse of the heart

Enchanting, yet so fraught with trouble?

I'll never know. But none the less,

I give it here in feeble dress:

A living picture's pallid double,

Or Freischutz* played with timid skill

By fingers that are learning still.

Tatyana's Letter to Onegin

I'm writing you this declaration

What more can I in candour say?

It may be now your inclination T

o scorn me and to turn away;

But if my hapless situation

Evokes some pity for my woe,

You won't abandon me, I know.

I first tried silence and evasion;

Believe me, you 'd have never learned

My secret shame, had I discerned

The slightest hope that on occasion

But once a weekI'd see your face,

Behold you at our country place,