Until he hears Apollo's call <br />To make a hallowed sacrifice, <br />A Poet lives in feeble thrall <br />To people's empty vanities; <br />And silent is his sacred lyre, <br />His soul partakes of chilly sleep, <br />And of the world's unworthy sons <br />He is, perhaps, the very least. <br /> <br />But once Divinity's command <br />Approaches his exquisite ear, <br />The poet's soul awakens, poised, <br />Just like an eagle stirred from sleep. <br />All worldly pleasures leave him cold, <br />From common talk he stays aloof, <br />And will not lower his proud head <br />Before the nation's sacred cow. <br />Untamed and brooding, he takes flight, <br />Seething with sound and agitation, <br />To reach a sea-swept, desert shore, <br />A woodland wide and murmuring...<br /><br />Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-poet-70/
