Once, he slept
Down by the Neva dockside. Rough
Breathed out the wind, as summer crept
To autumn. Sombre billows leapt
And foamed and moaned upon the docks
On velvet steps, like one who knocks
At judges’ doors to press his case,
Ignored by them in every place.
He woke, poor creature, to the dark
And drizzle; a sad wind howled, and hark!
The watchmen’s cry out yonder might
Be an echo called across the night…
From Pushkin’s The Bronze Horseman.