A.Pushkin, To Poet.- Translation (Rus.) Poem by Lyudmila Purgina

Oh, Poet! Don't take too near the people's cry of love,
Don't cost it much. The praise's minute will pass,
And then you'll go through the Court of fools and laugh
Of cold mob. So let you be both silent, steadfast

And gloomy - for you're the tzar! Let be alone.
Let go free towards the need of easy mind, indeed,
And there improve the fruits of lovely thoughts
Without any inner trouble to award for noble feat.

That lies in depth of soul. You yourself would be
Your highest court: your work you can esteem
In most strictly way. So were you ever pleased

With such austere master? True? Then let the mob
Be scolding, spitting on Altar, where you do fire hold,
And childishly be playing there with tripod.