Ballet Is A Dance Executed By The

It's A Lucky Man, A Very Lucky Man, Who Is Committed To What He Believes, Who Has Stifled Intellectual Detachment And Can Relax In The Luxury Of His Emotions - Like A Tipsy Traveller Resting For The Night At Wayside Inn.

Cabbage Soup And Barley. They're Russia's National Food. Both Excellent In Their Way, But A Shade Monotonous.

To Love All Ages Yield Surrender; But To The Young It's Raptures Bring A Blessing Bountiful And Tender- As Storms Refresh The Fields Of Spring.

Sad That Our Finest Aspiration, Our Freshest Dreams And Meditations, In Swift Succession Should Decay, Like Autumn Leaves That Rot Away.

There Yet Remains But One Concluding Tale, And Then This Chronicle Of Mine Is Ended - Fulfilled, The Duty God Ordained To Me, A Sinner. Not Without Purpose Did The Lord, Put Me To Witness Much For Many Years, And Educate Me In The Love Of Books. One Day Some Indefatigable Monk, Will Find My Conscientious, Unsigned Work; Like Me, He Will Light Up His Ikon-lamp, And, Shaking From The Scroll The Age-old Dust, He Will Transcribe These Tales In All Their Truth.