Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky Poems

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.
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You're useless, days! The earthly world will never
Change its used games!
We know them all, and our future, clever,
Predicts the same.
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When, by sorrow inspired,
The poet sings his own pine,
Whose soul will be cold and tired
To give not him the answer, fine?
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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.
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Wise Providence gave our perception
The choice between two different fates:
Either blind hope and agitation,
Or hopelessness and deadly rest.
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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.
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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.
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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?
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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.
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I love you, goddesses of singing,
But your invasion, so fine,
That tremor of the spirit thrilling,
Is a herald of the future pines.
...