"In the silence of the gardens, in spring, in the darkness of the night, the eastern nightingale sings above a rose. But the sweet rose does not feel and does not listen, and sways and slumbers while the nightingale sings its hymn of love. Is it not thus that you sing for some cold beauty? Bethink yourself, o Poet: what are you strining towards? She does not listen to the poet, nor does she feel him. You look, she blooms; you call to her, there is no reply."
Pushkin
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