Eugene Onegin ( without commentary )

XXXI

Softly he lays his hand upon his breast and falls. His misty gaze expresses death, not pain. 4 Thus, slowly, down the slope of hills, shining with sparkles in the sun, a lump of snow descends.

Deluged with instant cold, 8 Onegin hastens to the youth, looks, calls him… vainly: he is no more. The young bard has found an untimely end! 12 The storm has blown$ the beauteous bloom has withered at sunrise$ the fire upon the altar has gone out!…