Anton Pavlovich Chekhov. (№ 465397)

The sun is shining so nicely over the dirty earth, there is such a smell of spring in the air that I am too lazy and have no strength to sit in the room, but for me - woe is me! - up to my neck in work: exams, daily bread... I love spring, and yet I use it least of all. Involuntarily, you will not be a poet: the gods did not give you talent, and social conditions take away spring.