A bard's sweet song mends ailing constitution.
The harmony's ever-mysterious reign
Will compensate the cumbersome illusion
And curb the sense that's passionate and strained.
...
Poison, we drink in love - the sweetest one,
But that's the poison, what we drink,
And always pay for joy, that's briefest one,
With sadness of the long days' link.
...
Don't imitate: the gift is special here,
And with its own greatness it is great;
Either Doratov or the new Shakespeare -
You are not liked: they hate returning, yet.
...
But your invasion, so fine,
That tremor of the spirit thrilling,
Is a herald of the future pines.
...
I did not blinded with the Muse, my dear:
She'll not be called the beauty, charming heart,
And throngs of youths, when sought her passing here,
As crazy lovers, will not run behind.
...
When fixed his gaze upon the stone,
The artist saw a nymph inside,
And fire ran through vein his own -
He flew to her in all his heart.
...
When, by sorrow inspired,
The poet sings his own pine,
Whose soul will be cold and tired
To give not him the answer, fine?
...
Wise Providence gave our perception
The choice between two different fates:
Either blind hope and agitation,
Or hopelessness and deadly rest.
...
You're useless, days! The earthly world will never
Change its used games!
We know them all, and our future, clever,
Predicts the same.
...
We diligently watch the world,
We diligently watch the people -
Wait for the wonder in their middle.
And what are fruits of the long years' plots?
...