a sudden bliss has seized my mind,
and to a mountain peak it carries me
up where the wind's forgotten how to stir the trees;
the deepest valley lies in silence.
perceiving something, quiet goes the brook
that used to babble without cease
when rushing down the hill.
there, they are braiding laurel wreaths
and word is spread to every side;
smoke curls up from the fields afar.
by Mikhail Lomonosov.