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 bemusement in mid-motion,
and pause in worshipful devotion,
at beauty's sacred shrine to pray.
Poem by: Alexander Pushkin
(1799-1837)
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