“So meanwhile, friends, enjoy your blessing: This fragile life that hurries so! Its worthlessness needs no professing, And I'm not loathe to let it go; I've closed my eyes to phantoms gleaming, Yet distant hopes within me dreaming Still stir my heart at times to flight: I'd grieve to quit this world's dim light And leave no trace, however slender. I live, I write - not seeking fame; And yet, I think, I'd wish to claim For my sad lot its share of splendour— At least one note to linger long, Recalling, like some friend, my song.”
Book:Eugene Onegin
