However, reader, we may wonder . ..
The youthful lover's voice is stilled,
His dreams and songs all rent asunder;
And he, alas, by friend lies killed!
Not far from where the youth once flourished
There lies a spot the poet cherished:
Two pine trees grow there, roots entwined;
Beneath them quiet streamlets wind,
Meand'ring from the nearby valley.
And there the ploughman rests at will
And women reapers come to fill
Their pitchers in the stream and dally;
There too, within a shaded nook,
A simple stone adjoins the brook.
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Sometimes a shepherd sits there waiting
(Till on the fields, spring rains have passed)
And sings of Volga fishers, plaiting
His simple, coloured shoes of bast;
Or some young girl from town who's spending
Her summer in the country mending
When headlong and alone on horse
She races down the meadow course,
Will draw her leather reins up tightly
To halt just there her panting steed;
And lifting up her veil, she'll read
The plain inscription, skimming lightly;
And as she reads, a tear will rise
And softly dim her gentle eyes.
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And at a walk she'll ride, dejected,
Into the open field to gaze,
Her soul, despite herself, infected
By Lensky's brief, ill-fated days.
She'll wonder too: 'Did Olga languish?
Her heart consumed with lasting anguish?
Or did the time of tears soon pass?
And where's her sister now, poor lass?
And where that gloomy, strange betrayer,
The modish beauty's modish foe,
That recluse from the world we know
The youthful poet's friend and slayer?'
In time, I promise, I'll not fail
To tell you all in full detail.
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But not today. Although I cherish
My hero and of course I vow
To see how he may wane or flourish,
I'm not quite in the mood just now.
The years to solemn prose incline me;
