The Sail


Mikhail Lermontov

A lone sail makes a patch of whiteness

Against the blue mist of the sea.

What does he seek past far horizons?

And what did he forsake, to flee?

The waves leap up, the wind is freshening,

The mast is laboring, and creaks.

It isn't happiness he flees from,

Alas! Not happiness he seeks.

The bright blue water flows beneath him;

Above, the sun shines--gold and round.

Be he, rebellious, seeks the tempest,

As though in tempests, peace were found!


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