Aleksandr Pushkin

When you hold on your laps your lyre
With your, lost of a patience, hand,
With your elated soul flying
Into the full of fancies land;
When visions run in a succession
Before you in the darkness fair –
And the fast cold of inspiration,
On your head rises tangled hair –
You’re right: you’re singing not for crowds,
Not for the jealous judges’ use,
Not for the measurable hounds
Hunting the others’ thoughts and news,
But for the comrades of the talents,
Severe comrades of a truth.
Not everyone by fate is treasured
Or has been born for crowns, glossed.   
He’s blessed, who knows a great pleasure
Of the elated thoughts and verse!
Who, in his heart, is blessed to bear
Enjoying of the blessing light,
And understood all your delight
With his delight, so flamed and clear. 


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver,December 1, 2003