"I shall never forget the first weeks I spent in the country. The weather was magnificent - we left Moscow on the ninth of May, St Nicholas’ Day. I used to go for walks in our garden, or in the Neskootchny Park, or sometimes beyond the Toll-gate; I would take a book with me - Kaidanov’s lectures, for example - though I seldom opened it, and spent most of the time repeating lines of poetry aloud to myself - I knew a great many by heart then. My blood was in a ferment within me, my heart was full of longing, sweetly and foolishly; I was all expectancy and wonder; I was tremulous and waiting; my fancy fluttered and circled about the same images like martins round a bell-tower at dawn; I dreamed and was sad and sometimes cried. But through the tears and the melancholy, inspired by the music of the verse or the beauty of the evening, there always rose upwards, like the grasses of early spring, shoots of happy feeling, of young and surging life."
— From “First Love” by Ivan Turgenev (via aclockwithouthands)