Sometime in the decade between 1826 and 1836 Tiutchev wrote a poem entitled “Son na more” (“Dream at Sea”). A literal English translation would read as follows:

Both the sea and the storm rocked our skiff; Sleepy, I was abandoned to the full caprice of the waves. The two infinities were within me, And willfully they played with me. Around me, like cymbals, resounded the cliffs. The winds replied, and the waves sang. I flew deafened in a chaos of sounds. But above the chaos of sounds my dream was swiftly borne. Sickly bright, magically mute, It blew lightly over the sounding darkness. In the rays of my fever it unfolded its world: The earth shone green, the ether grew bright, Labyrinthine gardens, palaces, columns, And myriads of silent crowds seethed. I recognized many faces unfamiliar to me. I saw magic creatures, mysterious birds. Across the peaks of creation I strode like a god, And under me the world shone motionless. But through all the dreams, like the wail of a magician, I heard the roar of the ocean's abyss, And into the quiet domain of visions and dreams Burst the foam of the roaring waves.