parched with thirst, i crossed
an endless desert sunk in gloom,
and a six-winged seraph * came
where the tracks met and i stood lost.
fingers light as dream he laid
upon my lids; i opened wide
my eagle eyes, and gazed around.
he laid his fingers on my ears
and they were filled with roaring sound:
i heard the music of the spheres,
the flight of angels through the skies,
the beasts that crept beneath the sea,
the heady uprush of the vine....
from a.s. pushkin's the prophet
found in joseph frank's book dostoevsky: a writer in his time