At the Alexander Blok museum

I visited today afternoon the flat of Alexander Blok(1880-1921) , the Russian poet of the Silver Age after my verses were compared with his by Guzel Strelkova in her article on my poerty for a literary journal. His life ended tragically after the October revolution when he was forced to live in a smaller place and was burdened with the mundane.
Blok said - 'A poet is not someone who writes poems but someone who has rhythm inside'

His haunting words -

Night, a street, a lamp, a drugstore,
A senseless, wan light.
Live another quarter of a century-
All will be the same. There is no way out.

You die-you begin from the beginning,
And everything comes round again:
The night, the icy ripple on the canal,
The drugstore, the street, the lamp.

and...

I would forget about valour, deeds,

And glory on this mournful earth

When your face in the simple frame

Would shine before me on the table.

Alexander Blok