“Blest he who’s given to
believing,
Who sets aside cold intellect,
Whose heart, enjoying bliss delightful,
Rests like a traveller drunk at nightfall
Or (gentler) like a butterfly
That settles on a flower near by;
But sad is he who lacks illusion,
Whose head is steady, never stirred,
Who hates each impulse, every word,
Foreseeing always their conclusion;
Whose heart experience has chilled,
Whose urge to reverie is stilled.”—Russian poet, playwright, and fiction writer Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837), Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (1833), translated by Stanley Mitchell (2008)
Who sets aside cold intellect,
Whose heart, enjoying bliss delightful,
Rests like a traveller drunk at nightfall
Or (gentler) like a butterfly
That settles on a flower near by;
But sad is he who lacks illusion,
Whose head is steady, never stirred,
Who hates each impulse, every word,
Foreseeing always their conclusion;
Whose heart experience has chilled,
Whose urge to reverie is stilled.”—Russian poet, playwright, and fiction writer Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837), Eugene Onegin: A Novel in Verse (1833), translated by Stanley Mitchell (2008)
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