Like Lenore! Oft upon Taurida’s shore To hear old music I was led; In the night’s darkness there we heard no roar Nereids, never-silent, whisperd. And as unto the waves we listend We heard a choir, as of the cherubim, The father of the worlds praise in a hymn. V And in Moldavia, spot remote and sad, Forgetting feasts in distant capital, To visit humble tents my Muse was glad, And the wandering gypsies pleased to dwell; ’mid them she grew wild; beneath their spell The speech of gods she speedily forgot, Which may be a good thing, or maybe not. Forget the godlike tones for the poor tongue, For the steppes’ songs that pleasant were to her . . . . Such things can happen to the wild and young: But suddenly from this did she forebear: Here in my garden next did she appear, In of maiden from the provinces, French book in hand, and sad thoughts in her eyes. VI Now, for the time, to the social rout, The city’s life, the rustic Muse I bring; With jealous shyness I have brought her out, For to her rural charms I fain would cling; But I of the gay world have now to sing: Behold her slipping through the narrow rows Of courtiers, coxcombs, acknowledging their bows. The dandy and the diplomat are there, The military man, the lady She sits and at the throng doth stare, The noisy throng, with speech and music loud; She sees the guests arriving, as they To the young hostess; the dark frame of men Around the ladies, pictures which frames brighten. VII She the order of the conversation Among the oligarchs so cold in pride, Ranks and ages mixed win admiration. But who is he now standing on one side? Silent, confused, he through the throng did glide; He seems a stranger, unknown to his hosts,
Like Lenore! Oft upon Taurida’s shore To hear old music I was led; In the night’s darkness there we heard no roar Nereids, never-silent, whisperd. And as unto the waves we listend We heard a choir, as of the cherubim, The father of the worlds praise in a hymn. V And in Moldavia, spot remote and sad, Forgetting feasts in distant capital, To visit humble tents my Muse was glad, And ’mid the wandering gypsies pleased to dwell; them she grew wild; beneath their spell The speech of gods she speedily forgot, Which may be a good thing, or maybe not. Forget the godlike tones for the poor tongue, For the steppes’ songs that pleasant were to her . . . . Such things can happen to the wild and young: But suddenly from this did she forebear: Here in my garden next did she appear, In of maiden from the provinces, French book in hand, and sad thoughts in her eyes. VI Now, for the time, to the social rout, The city’s life, the rustic Muse I bring; With jealous shyness I have brought her out, For to her rural charms I fain would cling; But I of the gay world have now to sing: Behold her slipping through the narrow rows Of courtiers, coxcombs, acknowledging their bows. The dandy and the diplomat are there, The military man, the lady She sits and at the throng doth stare, The noisy throng, with speech and music loud; She sees the guests arriving, as they To the young hostess; the dark frame of men Around the ladies, pictures which frames brighten. VII She the order of the conversation Among the oligarchs so cold in pride, Ranks and ages mixed win admiration. But who is he now standing on one side? Silent, confused, he through the throng did glide; He seems a stranger, unknown to his hosts,
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