If I walk the noisy streets, <br />Or enter a many thronged church, <br />Or sit among the wild young generation, <br />I give way to my thoughts. <br />I say to myself: the years are fleeting, <br />And however many there seem to be, <br />We must all go under the eternal vault, <br />And someone?s hour is already at hand. <br />When I look at a solitary oak <br />I think: the patriarch of the woods. <br />It will outlive my forgotten age <br />As it outlived that of my grandfathers?. <br />If I dandle a young infant, <br />Immediately I think: farewell! <br />I will yield my place to you, <br />For I must fade while your flower blooms. <br />Each day, and every hour <br />I habitually follow in my thoughts, <br />Trying to guess from their number <br />The year which brings my death. <br />And where will fate send death to me? <br />In battle, in my travels, or on the seas? <br />Or will the neighbouring valley <br />Receive my chilled ashes? <br />And although to the senseless body <br />It is indifferent wherever it rots, <br />Yet close to my beloved countryside <br />I still would prefer to rest. <br />And let it be, beside the grave?s vault <br />That young life forever will be playing, <br />And impartial, indifferent nature <br />Eternally be shining in beauty.<br /><br />Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/thoughts-176/
