Beauty

Everything in her harmony, All miracle,
All the above peace and passions;
It rests bashfully
The beauty of its solemn;
She looks around him:
It has no rivals, no friends;
Pale beauties of our circle
Its radiance disappears.

Wherever you hurried,
Though on the assignation,
What is used in heart nor fed
You unseen mechtane, —
But to meet her, embarrassed, you
Suddenly stopped involuntarily,
Blahohoveya pious
Before the shrine of beauty.

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Alexander Pushkin
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