XXI

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XXI

Thus in a style obscure and stale,

He wrote (’tis the romantic style,

Though of romance therein I fail

To see aught⁠—never mind meanwhile)

And about dawn upon his breast

His weary head declined at rest,

For o’er a word to fashion known,

“Ideal,” he had drowsy grown.

But scarce had sleep’s soft witchery

Subdued him, when his neighbour stept

Into the chamber where he slept

And wakened him with the loud cry:

“ ’Tis time to get up! Seven doth strike.

Onegin waits on us, ’tis like.”