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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341153" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Muse</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=341153" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.<br>The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure<br>And harked to me with smile -- without speed,<br>Along the ringing holes of the reed,<br>I got to play with my non-artful fingers<br>The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,<br>And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.<br>>From morn till night in oaks' silent shade<br>I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;<br>Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,<br>And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,<br>She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.<br>The reed became alive in consecrated breathing<br>And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Alexander+Sergeyevich+Pushkin">Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin</a></strong></div>

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