XVIII
At home arriving he addressed
His care unto his pistols’ plight,
Replaced them in their box, undressed
And Schiller read by candlelight.
But one thought only filled his mind,
His mournful heart no peace could find,
Olga he sees before his eyes
Miraculously fair arise,
Vladimir closes up his book,
And grasps a pen: his verse, albeit
With lovers’ rubbish filled, was neat
And flowed harmoniously. He took
And spouted it with lyric fire—
Like D⸺ when dinner doth inspire.