And show you how he spent each day.
Onegin lived in his own heaven:
In summer he'd get up by seven
And, lightly clad, would take a stroll
Down to the stream below the knoll.
Gulnare's proud singer* his example,
He'd swim across this Hellespont;
Then afterwards, as was his wont,
He'd drink his coffee, sometimes sample
The pages of some dull review,
And then he'd dress. . . .
(38) 39
Long rambles, reading, slumber's blisses,
The burbling brook, the wooded shade,
At times the fresh and youthful kisses
Of white-skinned, dark-eyed country maid;
A horse of spirit fit to bridle,
A dinner fanciful and idle,
A bottle of some sparkling wine,
Seclusion, quietthese, in fine,
Were my Onegin's saintly pleasures,
To which he yielded one by one,
Unmoved to count beneath the sun
Fair summer's days and careless treasures,
Unmindful too of town or friends
And their dull means to festive ends.
40
Our northern summers, though, are versions
Of southern winters, this is clear;
And though we're loath to cast aspersions,
They seem to go before they're here!
The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled;
The friendly sun less often sparkled;
The days grew short and as they sped,
The wood with mournful murmur shed
Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered;
The fields all lay in misty peace;
The caravan of cackling geese
Turned south; and all around there hovered
The sombre season near at hand;
November marched across the land.
41
The dawn arises cold and cheerless;
The empty fields in silence wait;
And on the road . . . grown lean and fearless,
The wolf appears with hungry mate;
Catching the scent, the road horse quivers
And snorts in fear, the traveller shivers
And flies uphill with all his speed;
No more at dawn does shepherd need
