Oblivious of time or season,

Into a mirror through her tears

Forget to peek-well, then she is

In a most grievous state, indeed.

Ludmila, left alone again,

Uncertain what to do, beneath

A window stands and through the pane

Drear, boundless reaches, wondering, sees.

On carpets of eye-dazzling snow

Her gaze rests; filled is she with sadness....

Before her all is stark white deadness;

The peaks of brooding mountains show

Above the silent plains, and, sombre,

Seem wrapt in deep, eternal slumber:

No wayfarer plodding slowly past,

No smoke from out a chimney trailing,

No hunter's horn resounding gaily

Over the snow-bound, endless waste....

Only the rebel wind's wail dismal

At times disrupts the calm abysmal,

And etched against the sky's bleak grey,

The nude and orphaned forests sway.

Despairing, tearful, poor Ludmila

Her face hides in her hands, unwilling

To think of what may be in store....

She pushes at a silver door

Which opens with a sound most pleasing;

Before her, with their beauty teasing

The eye, spread gardens that surpass

King Solomon's in loveliness,

And e'en Armide's and those that to

Taurida's prince belonged. The view

Is one of trees, green arbours forming