A butterfly in blooms of May

"Yes, he was loved … beyond deceiving…
Or so at least with joy he thought.
Oh, blest is he who lives believing,
Who takes cold intellect for naught,
Who rests within the heart’s sweet places
As does a drunk in sleep’s embraces,
Or as, more tenderly I’d say,
A butterfly in blooms of May;
But wretched he who’s too far-sighted,
Whose head is never fancy-stirred,
Who hates all gestures, each warm word,
As sentiments to be derided,
Whose heart … experience has cooled
And barred from being loved … or fooled!"

— Alexander Pushkin, Eugene Onegin (1833)