All harmony, all wondrous fairness,
Aloof from passions and the world,
She rests with tranquil unawareness
In her triumphant beauty furled.
When, all about her, eyes hold muster,
Nor friends, nor rivals can be found,
Our other beauties' pallid round
Extinguished wholly by her luster.
And were you bound I know not where,
Be it to love's embraces bidden,
Or what choice vision you may bear
In heart's most private chamber hidden,-
Yet, meeting her, you will delay,
Struck by besmusement in mid-motion,
And pause in worshipful devotion
At beauty's sacred shrine to pray.
Writer : Alexander Pushkin
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