While the poet is not required
For holy sacrifice unto Apollo,
Within the bustling worldly cares
He is faint-heartedly immersed;
Silent is his sacred lyre;
His soul lies deep in wintry sleep,
And of the humble children of this world,
He is, perhaps, most humble.
But as soon as Word divine
To his sentient hearing touches,
The poet's soul arouses
Like an eagle awakening.
He pines amid the world's amusements,
Rumors from the crowd he shuns,
To the feet of peoples' idols'
He bows not his proud head;
But runs he, wild and austere,
With sounds and with confusions full
To the shores of lonely seas,
To wide-murmuring forests.
Writer : Alexander Pushkin
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