Alexander Puskin

Upon the brink of the wild stream
He stood, and dreamt a mighty dream.

The illusion which exalts us is dearer to us than ten thousand truths.

Always contented with his life,
and with his dinner, and his wife.

A man who's active and incisive
can yet keep nail-care much in mind:
why fight what's known to be decisive?
custom is despot of mankind.

The clock of doom had struck as fated;
the poet, without a sound,
let fall his pistol on the ground.

Like some magistrate grown gray in office,
Calmly he contemplates alike the just
And unjust, with indifference he notes
Evil and good, and knows not wrath nor pity.