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January 24, 2005 by AK

Vladimir Solov’yov

Lies somewhere by this stone:

Was once un philosophe,

Now turned a skeleton.

Once friend to lamb and wolf,

To hosts he was a fiend,

But, mad with love, himself

He flung down a ravine.

He lost his soul — to tack

No mention of the lard —

The former, Satan took;

The latter, dogs devoured.

O traveller! Apprehend

From the accident of fate:

How love is decadent,

How salutary’s faith.


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