As though a tempest tempting vessels,
Your eyes in whirlpools submerge
The open field, the school, the church,
Consuming matter, sparing essence.
No poet’s words have ever traced
Those eyes as closely as your cup.
Your lips dissolved, in every drop
They left a charming after-taste.
"I will not whole die, my soul in sacred lyre, will outlive my dust and will escape decay,
And in the moonlit sphere, my glory will not tire
As long as poets still remain" A. Pushkin