'Tis time, my dear, 'tis time. The heart demands repose.
Day after day flits by, and with each hour there goes
A little bit of life, but meanwhile you and I
Together plan to dwell...yet lo! 'tis then we die.
There is no bliss on earth, there's peace and freedom, though
An enviable lot I long have yearned to know.
Long have I, weary slave, been contemplating flight
To a remote adobe of work and pure delight.
(Pushkin — Nabokov)
| | theformalist (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=91.7){kind=small} theformalist) wrote, |
Пора, мой друг, пора
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