回复: Memories
A sleepy, oily sun blinking in the forest, sleepy pines blinking their needles like eyelashes, oily puddles shining at noon.
The countryside yawns, stretches, turns over and goes back to sleep.
'Chapter 7 of Eugene Onegin describes the spring, Onegin's house deserted in his absence, Lensky's grave by the stream at the foot of the hill.
“The nightingale, spring's lover,
Sings all night. The wild rose blooms.”