Eugene Oneguine [Onegin]. A Romance of Russian Life in Verse

This northern summer of our own, On winters of the south a skit, Glimmers and dies. This is well known, Though we will not acknowledge it.Already Autumn chilled the sky, The tiny sun shone less on high And shorter had the days become. The forests in mysterious gloom Were stripped with melancholy sound, Upon the earth a mist did lie And many a caravan on high Of clamorous geese flew southward bound.A weary season was at hand— November at the gate did stand.

XXXI

The morn arises foggy, cold, The silent fields no peasant nears, The wolf upon the highways bold With his ferocious mate appears.Detecting him the passing horse snorts, and his rider bends his course And wisely gallops to the hill. No more at dawn the shepherd will Drive out the cattle from their shed, Nor at the hour of noon with sound Of horn in circle call them round. Singing inside her hut the maid Spins, whilst the friend of wintry night, The pine-torch, by her crackles bright.

XXXII

Already crisp hoar frosts impose O'er all a sheet of silvery dust (Readers expect the rhyme of rose, There! take it quickly, if ye must).Behold! than polished floor more nice The shining river clothed in ice; A joyous troop of little boys Engrave the ice with strident noise.A heavy goose on scarlet feet, Thinking to float upon the stream, Descends the bank with care extreme, But staggers, slips, and falls. We greet The first bright wreathing storm of snow Which falls in starry flakes below.

XXXIII

How in the country pass this time? Walking? The landscape tires the eye In winter by its blank and dim And naked uniformity.On horseback gallop o'er the steppe! Your steed, though rough-shod, cannot keep His footing on the treacherous rime And may fall headlong any time.Alone beneath your rooftree stay And read De Pradt or Walter Scott![50] Keep your accounts! You'd rather not? Then get mad drunk or wroth; the day Will pass; the same to-morrow try— You'll spend your winter famously!

XXXIV

A true Childe Harold my Eugene To idle musing was a prey; At morn an icy bath within He sat, and then the livelong day, Alone within his habitation And buried deep in meditation, He round the billiard-table stalked, The balls impelled, the blunt cue chalked;When evening o'er the landscape looms, Billiards abandoned, cue forgot, A table to the fire is brought, And he waits dinner. Lenski comes, Driving abreast three horses gray. "Bring dinner now without delay!"

XXXV