He. The Tsar does what she wills—God fathoms why.
Were she his mistress, now! but there’s no snow
Whiter within the bosom of a cloud,
No colder either. She is very haughty,
For all her fragile air of gentleness;
With something vital in her, like those flowers
That on our desolate steppes outlast the year.
Resembles you in some things. It was that
First made us friends. I do her justice, see!
For we were friends in that smooth surface way