white on the azure mist of sea;
what does he seek in distant lands?
What has he left so far behind?
Waves play. The wind sings.
The masts creak, constantly.
How sad! It is not joy he seeks,
nor happiness from which he runs.
A blue light glows within the waves.
The sun above burns golden.
Yet the rebel sails toward storm,
as if in storm alone were peace.
(Mikhail Lermontov)