...from the quills of the dead white poets
Aleksandr Pushkin (1799 – 1837)
(From “A Sleep”, II) 1816
Oh, laziness, come, come to me, alone. You’re called for by soft coolness and good rest; Only in you I see my goddess own; All is here ready for the youthful guest, All’s quiet here – the boring noise fell down Behind my porch; upon a window, bright, Downed a curtain, transparent and light; And in a niche, where now a dusk is crowned, Is weakly creeping bashful light of a day. There’s my divan. Come to the word’s abode; And be a queen. I’m here to obey. All here is yours: paints, brushes, a lyre gold – Just teach me right, move my hand in your way.