Okay, here's mine, from Pushkin's Eugene Onegin. (Pushkin is delightfully easy to memorize, at least in Falen's translation. I didn't even mean to memorize this stanza, but I did.)

Yes, he was loved...beyond deceiving...
Or so at least in joy he thought.
Blessed is he who lives believing,
who takes cold intellect for naught,
who lives 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.
And wretched he who's too far-sighted,
Whose heart is never fancy-stirred,
Who hates each gesture, each warm word
As sentiments to be derided:
Whose heart...experience has cooled,
And barred from being loved...or fooled!

Nice, huh?