Eugene Onegin

Some children are never quite at home inside their own family.

And so Tattiana was her name,Nor by her sister’s brilliancyNor by her beauty she becameThe cynosure of every eye.Shy, silent did the maid appearAs in the timid forest deer,Even beneath her parents’ roofStood as estranged from all aloof,Nearest and dearest knew not howTo fawn upon and love express;A child devoid of childishnessTo romp and play she ne’er would go:Oft staring through the window paneWould she in silence long remain.

The friend you fell out with was once the person you told everything to.

Foes! Is it long since friendship rentAsunder was and hate prepared?Since leisure was together spent,Meals, secrets, occupations shared?Now, like hereditary foes,Malignant fury they disclose,As in some frenzied dream of fearThese friends cold-bloodedly draw nearMutual destruction to contrive.Cannot they amicably smileEre crimson stains their hands defile,Depart in peace and friendly live?But fashionable hatred’s flameTrembles at artificial shame.

Two days of meadows, and then the meadows stop existing.

For two whole days it seemed a changeTo wander through the meadows still,The cool dark oaken grove to range,To listen to the rippling rill.But on the third of grove and meadHe took no more the slightest heed;They made him feel inclined to doze;And the conviction soon arose,Ennui can in the country dwellThough without palaces and streets,Cards, balls, routs, poetry or fêtes;On him spleen mounted sentinelAnd like his shadow dogged his life,Or better—like a faithful wife.