The poem
This great purple butterfly, In the prison of my hands, Has a learning in his eye Not a poor fool understands.
Once he lived a schoolmaster With a stark, denying look; A string of scholars went in fear Of his great birch and his great book.
Like the clangour of a bell, Sweet and harsh, harsh and sweet. That is how he learnt so well To take the roses for his meat.
Ñàóíà â Ìóðìàíñêå
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