| Tatyana, in her heart obeying
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| The simple folkways of the past
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| Believed in dreams and in soothsaying
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| And heeded what the moon forecast
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| Weird apparitions would distress her
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| And any object could impress her
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| With some occult significance
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| Or dire foreboding of mischance
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| A preening pussycat, relaxing
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| Upon the stove with lick and purr
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| Was an unfailing sign to her
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| That guests were coming, or a waxing
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| Twin-horned young moon that she saw ride
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| Across the sky on her left side
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| Would make her tremble and change color
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| Each time a shooting star might flash
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| In the dark firmament, grow duller
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| And burst asunder into ash
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| All flustered, Tatyana would be seeking
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| While yet the fiery spark was streaking
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| To whisper it her heart’s desire
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| But if she met a black-robed friar
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| At any place or any season
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| Or if from out the meadow swath
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| A fleeing hare should cross her path
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| She would be frightened out of reason
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| And filled with supertitious dread
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| See some calamity ahead |