Eugene Onegin ( without commentary )

118
Chapter One
XLVIII

With soul full of regrets, and leaning on the granite, Eugene stood pensive-as himself 4 the Poet9 has described. 'Twas stillness all; only night sentries to one another called, and the far clip-clop of some droshky 8 resounded suddenly from Million Street; only a boat, oars swinging, swam on the dozing river, and, in the distance, captivated us 12 a horn and a brave song. But, 'mid the night's diversions, sweeter is the strain of Torquato's octaves.