Eugene Onegin ( without commentary )

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Chapter Eight

Days rushed. In warmth-pervaded air winter already was resolving5 and he did not become a poet, 4 he did not die, did not go mad. Spring quickens him: for the first time his close-shut chambers, where he had been hibernating like a marmot, 8 his double windows, inglenook- he leaves on a bright morning, he fleets in sleigh along the Neva's bank. Upon blue blocks of hewn-out ice 12 the sun plays. In the streets the furrowed snow thaws muddily: whither, upon it, his fast course