XXX
Alas! for funs, which can be differed, I’ve ruined much of own life.
But if the morals never shifted, My love to ballets could survive.
I like teenage’s lively madness, The tightness, brightness and the gladness;
Of ladies well-considered dress. I love girls feet. But it’s a stress
To try to find in Russia whole Of them three pairs straight and fine.
Ah! I’ll forever keep in mind Small feet of lady.
Sad and cold,
I do remember them; in dream They trouble all my heart, such grim.
XXXI
In what a waste, when? where? how? You, madman. will all them forget?
Ah, feet, such small, where are you flow, What vernal plants are trampling yet?
In eastern comfort being cherished Sad northern snow to embellish.
You never stamped your small foot-prints. You liked smooth carperts of some prints
To touch in splendid admiration.
Is it high time as I forgot
For you the glory and the laud, The father’s land, incarceration?
But happiness of youth has gone Like light foot-prints in fields forlone.
XXXII
Diana’s breasts, the cheeks of Flora Delightful are, my freinds, you see!
But foot, such small, of Terpsichore More charming somewhat is for me.
It is predicting to my gazing Reward, which I can’t be appraising,
Conditionally by its charms Self-willed desires it alarms.
My friend Elvina! Nothing hinders To love it under table cloth,
In spring at grass and so forth, At iron fire-place in winters,
At smooth of parquets in the halls, At sea on granite and at malls.
XXXIII
I keep in mind the sea, quite stormy: What envious I was when waves
In turn to girl were all returning With love to feet to lay themselves.
With waves I wished myself somehow To touch her dear feet by mouth.
Among all those ardent days Of boiling youth, such bright and gay,
I never wished with such a torture To kiss young Armid’s pretty lips,
Or roses of flaming cheeks, Or bosom, which awaits for fortune.
Ah, never impulse of the sense Put rack my soul ever hence.
XXXIV
But other times in mind I bear!
I saw myself in cherished dream
To keep the happy stirrup dare...
Meanwhile small foot in hands l feel;
And works again imagination. Again her touch of fascination
In cold heart is kindling blood... Again the grief, of love the flood!
The talkative my lyre’s tired To glorify all haughty ranks.
They don’t cost yet neither sense, Nor any songs, by them inspired:
Of sorceresses words and peep Delusive are... as their feet.
XXXV
What’s my Onegin?
Way is endless To bed from ballet; half asleep
He speeds through Petersburg, all restless, Awoken by drums’s beat.
The hawkers walk, gets up the salesman, Is dragging to cabstand a cabman,
With jug young woman goes fast, By feet she crushes snow-dust.