Who would grasp Russia with the mind? For her no yardstick was created: Her soul is of a special kind, By faith alone appreciated. - Fyodor Tyutchev

I love May's first storms: chuckling, sporting spring grumbles in mock anger; young thunder claps.

After tumbling down the mountain, a stone lies in a valley. How did it fall away? Right now, no-one knows. Did it tear from the heights on its own? Or was it cast down by the will of another? Aeons have flowed by, yet no-one knows the reason why.

Separation has this lofty meaning: if love lasts years, if but a day it takes, love's just a dream and we're a moment dreaming, and whether early, whether late the waking, the time must finally arrive when we awake.