XXIX

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XXIX

Sound sleep, books, walking, were his bliss,

The murmuring brook, the woodland shade,

The uncontaminated kiss

Of a young dark-eyed country maid,

A fiery, yet well-broken horse,

A dinner, whimsical each course,

A bottle of a vintage white

And solitude and calm delight.

Such was Onegin’s sainted life,

And such unconsciously he led,

Nor marked how summer’s prime had fled

In aimless ease and far from strife,

The curse of commonplace delight.

And town and friends forgotten quite.