Александр Пушкин – Eugene Onegin / Евгений Онегин (страница 7)

Of splendid carpets richly wrought. I once forgot for your sweet cause The thirst for fame and man's applause, My country and an exile's lot; My joy in youth was fleeting e'en As your light footprints on the green. Diana's bosom, Flora's cheeks, Are admirable, my dear friend, But yet Terpsichore bespeaks Charms more enduring in the end. For promises her feet reveal Of untold gain she must conceal, Their privileged allurements fire A hidden train of wild desire. I love them, O my dear Elvine,[15] Beneath the table-cloth of white, In winter on the fender bright, In springtime on the meadows green, Upon the ball-room's glassy floor Or by the ocean's rocky shore. Beside the stormy sea one day I envied sore the billows tall, Which rushed in eager dense array Enamoured at her feet to fall. How like the billow I desired To kiss the feet which I admired! No, never in the early blaze Of fiery youth's untutored days So ardently did I desire A young Armida's lips to press, Her cheek of rosy loveliness Or bosom full of languid fire, — A gust of passion never tore My spirit with such pangs before. Another time, so willed it Fate, Immersed in secret thought I stand And grasp a stirrup fortunate — Her foot was in my other hand. Again imagination blazed, The contact of the foot I raised Rekindled in my withered heart The fires of passion and its smart — Away! and cease to ring their praise For ever with thy tattling lyre, The proud ones are not worth the fire Of passion they so often raise. The words and looks of charmers sweet Are oft deceptive – like their feet. Where is Onéguine? Half asleep, Straight from the ball to bed he goes, Whilst Petersburg from slumber deep The drum already doth arouse. The shopman and the pedlar rise And to the Bourse the cabman plies; The Okhtenka with pitcher speeds,[16] Crunching the morning snow she treads; Morning awakes with joyous sound; The shutters open; to the skies In column blue the smoke doth rise; The German baker looks around His shop, a night-cap on his head, And pauses oft to serve out bread. But turning morning into night, Tired by the ball's incessant noise, The votary of vain delight