40
Tatyana listens, scarcely hearing
The vibrant voices, sits apart,
And waits impatient in her clearing
To calm the tremor in her heart
And halt the constant surge of blushes;
But still her heart in panic rushes,
Her cheeks retain their blazing glow
And ever brighter, brighter grow.
Just so a butterfly both quivers
And beats an iridescent wing
When captured by some boy in spring;
Just so a hare in winter shivers,
When suddenly far off it sees
The hunter hiding in the trees.
41
But finally she rose, forsaken,
And, sighing, started home for bed;
But hardly had she turned and taken
The garden lane, when straight ahead,
His eyes ablaze, Eugene stood waiting
Like some grim shade of night's creating;
And she, as if by fire seared,
Drew back and stopped when he appeared. . . .
Just now though, friends, I feel too tired
To tell you how this meeting went
And what ensued from that event;
I've talked so long that I've required
A little walk, some rest and play;
I'll finish up another day.
Chapter 4
La morale est dans la nature des choses*
Necker
(1-6)7
The less we love her when we woo her,
The more we draw a woman in,
And thus more surely we undo her
Within the witching webs we spin.
Time was, when cold debauch was lauded
As love's high art. . . and was applauded
For trumpeting its happy lot
In taking joy while loving not.
