Pastiche is all that’s possible.
Where Pushkin rests the Russian soul
Is settled in its memories full
Of passions that the poet stole,
Or borrowed, rather – for he knew
That life and love are never long
For rakes and bounders, rebels who
Amidst the treacherous devious throng
Can only moment’s ardour seize.
The stillness here his fate belies.
And yet the cuckooed still cool breeze
Is harbinger of sadder skies.