Book: Eugene Onegin. Page 1

For the time being revel in it
This light life, friends!
Her insignificance mean
Little attached to her I;
For Ghost, I closed eyelids;
But distant hopes
Sometimes troubled heart:
Without imperceptible trace
I was sad b peace to keep.
Live, I write not to praise;
But I would, it seems, wanted
Sad lot your praise.

Alas! on life's reins
Instant harvest generation
For the secret will of Providence,
Ascend, ripen and fall;
Other to them in the next go...

But and ardent youth
Can't hide anything.
Hatred, love, sadness and joy
She's ready to spill the beans.

When will we come running under the banner of
Prudent silence
When passions fade away the flames
And we become ridiculous
Their waywardness and inspiration
Belated feedback -
Humble, not without difficulty.
We like to listen to sometimes
Passions strangers the language of the rebel.

He believed that the soul of the native
To connect with it should
That dreary pining,
It everyday waiting for it;
He believed that the friends are ready
For the honor to accept the shackles.

Heart cute he was ignorant,
His cherished hope,
And world new Shine and noise
Still captivated her young mind.
He is amused by the dream sweet
Doubts of his heart;
The goal of our life for him
Was tempting a mystery
Over it, he broke the head of
And wonders suspected.

Love crazy anxiety
I felt bleak.
Blessed is he who with her combined
The heat of the rhymes: he doubled
Poetry sacred delirium,
Petrarch marching after,
And torments of the heart calmed down,
Caught and the glory meanwhile;
But I loving, was stupid and dumb.

She was a girl, she was in love.

The yoke of serfdom, he rents the old light was replaced; and a slave to fate blessed.

Notice by the way: all of them
Love the dreamy friends.
Sometimes cute items
I dreamt, and my soul
Their image has kept a secret;
Them after the Muse revived:
So I, carefree, sang
And the virgin mountains, my ideal,
And captives coast Salgir.
Now, my friends,
The question I often hear:
"Who is your lyre sigh?
Someone in the crowd jealous virgins
You dedicated it to tune?

Flowers, love, village, idleness,
Fields! I am devoted to you soul.
I am always glad to notice the difference
Between Onegin and me,
To mocking reader
Or any publisher
Intricate slander,
Collating here my traits,
Not repeated then shamelessly,
What I namaral his portrait,
Like Byron, the poet of pride,
It's like so impossible
To write poems about the other,
As soon as about himself.

I was born to a life of peace,
For a country of silence:
In the middle of nowhere sonorous voice liren,
Alive creative dreams.
The leisure phosphatase innocent
Wander over the deserted lake,
And far niente is my law.
Every morning I awake
For sweet the bliss and freedom:
Read a little, had a long sleep
Fly glory not catch.
Aren't I in the past few years
Spent in inaction, in the shade
My happiest days?

Found it full of yard services;
To the dead on all sides
Gathered foes and friends,
Hunters before the funeral.
The deceased was buried.
The priests and guests ate, drank
And after the matter went,
Like thing to do.
Here's our Onegin is a villager
Plants, waters, forests, lands
The owner is a complete and hitherto
Order enemy and waster,
And very glad that the path
Changed into something.

Suddenly he got really
From the Manager a report
Uncle dying in bed
And say goodbye to him would be happy.
After reading the sad message
Evgeny immediately on a date
Headlong through the mail galloped
And it is pre yawned,
Prigotovleni, for the sake of money,
In sighs, boredom and deception
(And so I began my novel);
But, on arriving in the village uncle,
Found it already on the table
As a tribute to ready the ground.