Until he hears Apollo’s call 
To make a hallowed sacrifice, 
A Poet lives in feeble thrall 
To people’s empty vanities; 
And silent is his sacred lyre, 
His soul partakes of chilly sleep, 
And of the world’s unworthy sons 
He is, perhaps, the very least. 

But once Divinity’s command 
Approaches his exquisite ear, 
The poet’s soul awakens, poised, 
Just like an eagle stirred from sleep. 
All worldly pleasures leave him cold, 
From common talk he stays aloof, 
And will not lower his proud head 
Before the nation’s sacred cow. 
Untamed and brooding, he takes flight, 
Seething with sound and agitation, 
To reach a sea-swept, desert shore, 
A woodland wide and murmuring…

 Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin


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