The lonely sail shows white
In the pale blue fog of the sea…
What is it searching for in a distant land?
What has it left in its native land?
The waves play–the wind whistles,
And the mast bends and squeaks…
Alas! it doesn’t search for happiness,
And doesn’t flee from happiness!
Below it a stream brighter than azure,
Above it a golden ray of sun…
And it, rebellious, asks for storms,
As if in storms there were peace!
Mikhail Iurievich Lermontov