Fyodor Kryukov,
The Russian Review
(1916)
“ Everything is still, with the stillness that comes when heavy clouds overcast the sky, when dark shadows hang shroud-like over the fields, when the white sands of the river-bank grow grey, when the purple hills and the blue grove on the horizon lose their coloring and disappear in the greyish mist, and when all living sounds, so familiar to the ear, suddenly die away, as if swallowed by some monster,—when everything disappears within itself, crowding around its own thoughts and vague questionings about life. ”
