Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

The Glare! The Heat!

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The glare! The heat! O Nice, you blind me!
A dull unease upon me settles...
Life, like a bird shot down, strains wildly
To fly - In vain! Its wings are fetters,
Its broken wings... As in a fever
It struggles on, yet is it vanquished:
Pressed to the dust it lies and shivers
In fear and impotence and anguish...

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Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev