Book: Eugene Onegin. Page 2

Will the hour of my freedom?
It's time! - appeal to it;
Wandering over the sea, waiting for the weather,
Menu sail ships.
Under the robe of storms, with waves disputing,
For freestyle crossroads sea
When will I start free running?
It's time to leave boring Breg
I hostile elements,
And in the midday swells,
Under the sky of my Africa
A sigh of twilight Russia,
Where I suffered, where I loved,
Where is the heart I buried.

The Adriatic wave,
About Brent! no, I will see you
And inspiration back,
Hear your magic voice!
He is Holy for the grandchildren of Apollo;
As the proud lyre of Albion
He's familiar, he's my family.
The nights of Golden Italy
I'll enjoy bliss on the outside,
A young Venetian,
The proud, the dumb,
Sailing in the mysterious gondola;
It will become my mouth
The language of Petrarch and love.

With a soul full of regrets,
And opershis on granite,
Standing pensively Eugene,
As described by the poet.
All was quiet; only the night
Common hour;
Yes drazek distant murmur
With Milannoj there would suddenly;
Only a boat, oars waving,
Swam on the dozing river:
And we were captivated away
Horn and song daring...
But sweeter, in night of fun,
Tune Torquato octaves!

How often do the summer sometimes
When a transparent and light
The night sky over the Neva
And water fun glass
Does not reflect the face of Diana,
Wspomnia previous years novels
Wspomnia former love,
Sensitive, carefree again
Breath of the night supportive
Silently reveled in us!
In forest green from prison
Moved convict sleepy,
So off we dream
By the beginning of the life of a young.

Who felt that disturbs
Ghost heavy days:
So that there is no charm.
The serpent of memories
Togo remorse gnaws.
All this often gives
The great charm of conversation.
First Onegin language
I was embarrassed; but I'm used to
To his scathing dispute
And the joke, the bile in half
Anger and grim epigrams.

Another! No one else in the world
Would not give my heart, I!
In the upper destined of the Council...
It is the will of heaven: I am yours;
My whole life has been a pledge
Dating true with you;
I know, you're God-sent,
To the grave, you are my Keeper...

Should I fall, pierced by an arrow,
Il will fly past it,
All good: vigil and sleep
Comes the appointed hour;
Blessed is the day of cares,
Blessed is the coming of darkness!

In the beauties he's not in love,
But dragging somehow;
Denied - instantly comforted;
Change - was glad to rest.

And again, devoted to idleness,
Languishing mental void,
He sat down with a laudable goal
A set mind is a stranger;
Squad books have filled the shelf
Read, read, and all to no avail:
There is boredom, there is deception Il delirium;
In that conscience, that makes no sense;
On all the different chains;
And outdated old
And the old raves novelty.
Both women, he left books,
And a shelf, dusty and their family,
Drew black taffeta.

And you, young beauty,
Which late sometimes
Take the cab daring
At the St. Petersburg pavement,
And you left my Eugene.
Renegade tumultuous pleasures,
Onegin house locked,
Yawning, took up the pen,
I wanted to write - but the work resistant
He was nauseous; nothing
Not out of his pen,
And got it to the shop perky
People whom do not judge,
Then that belong to it.

Precognize great light!
All before you left it;
And it is true that in our summer
Pretty boring the higher the tone;
Though, maybe a different lady
Interprets and Spreading Bentham,
But generally their conversation
Obnoxious, though innocent nonsense;
To that they are so pure,
So dignified, so intelligent,
So full of piety,
So careful, so precise,
So inaccessible to men,
The sight of them really gives rise to the spleen.

I know that my age alone is measured;
But that lasted my life,
In the morning I had to be sure
That with you the day you see I...

Stranger still, nothing is connected,
I thought: liberty and peace
The replacement of happiness. Oh, my God!
How wrong I was, how punished...

He is shot, thank God
Try not wanted
But life is cooled.
As Child-Harold, gloomy, languid
In the living room he appeared;
Gossip neither light nor Boston,
No cute look or a sigh immodest,
Nothing could touch him,
He did not notice anything.