From "Onegin"

How sad to me is thine appearing, O Springtime, hour of love's unrest! Within the soul what nameless languors! What passions hid within the breast! With what a heavy, heavy spirit From the earth's rustic lap I feel Again the joy of Springtide odors— That once could make my spirit reel! No more for me such pleasures thrilling, All that rejoices, that has life, All that exults,—brings but despondence To one past passion as past strife, All is but prose to such as he, Wearied unto satiety.

Perchance we fain would pass unnoticed That which in Autumn drooped and pined, Now radiant in verdure springing, Since it must of our loss remind; As with a tortured soul we realize In Nature's glad awakening, That we shall never find renewal, Who evermore are withering. Perchance there haunts us in remembrance, Our own most dear and lyric dream, Another long forgotten Springtime— And trembling neath this pang supreme, The heart faints for a distant country And for a night beside the sea!