Citizen
(included)
Alone again, harsh again
Lies - and does not write anything.
Poet
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
Citizen
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in it, believe me,
It's just plain stupidity.
A wild beast can lie down...
Poet
So what?
Citizen
Yes, it's embarrassing to look at.
Poet
Well, then go away.
Citizen
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled down,
Who has an incorruptible heart,
In whom is talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Poet
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first you have to give.
Citizen
Here's the news! You're dealing
You just fell asleep for a while
Wake up: smash the vices boldly ...
Poet
A! I know: “Look, where did you throw it!”
But I'm a shelled bird.
Too bad I don't feel like talking.
(takes a book)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read and stop complaining!
Citizen
(is reading)
"Not for worldly excitement,
Not for self-interest, not for battles,
We are born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers.
Poet
(with delight)
Incredible sounds!
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear I wouldn't pick up a pen!
Citizen
Yes, the sounds are wonderful ... hooray!
Their power is so amazing
That even sleepy blues
Jumped from the soul of the poet.
I rejoice sincerely - it's time!
And I share your enthusiasm
But, I confess, your poems
I take it to heart.
Poet
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So you think I'm great
Is a poet taller than Pushkin?
Say please?!.
Citizen
Oh no!
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Disgraceful and offensive
Your verse is poignant. You are noticeable
But without the sun, the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams free
And the man wanders timidly, -
You firmly held your light,
But the sky didn't like it
So that he blazed under the storm,
Illuminating the way nationwide;
Trembling spark in the dark
He was a little on fire, blinking, rushing about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But as long as
The sun is nowhere to be seen
It's a shame to sleep with your talent;
Even more ashamed in the hour of grief
The beauty of valleys, skies and seas
And sing sweet affection ...
The storm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The heavens argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
Barely shakes the sails, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the heart of travelers is calm,
As if instead of a ship
Below them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck: the storm groans,
And the tackle is tearing, and the mast is tilting, -
No time to play chess
It's not time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it in a cabin remote
You would become a lyre inspired
Delight sloths ears
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to the appointment
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
In front of good hearts,
To whom the homeland is holy.
God help them!.. And the rest?
Their goal is small, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers
And the third ... the third - the wise men:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person
They do nothing, saying:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do not harm!
Cunningly hides the haughty mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Do not believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid to share their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go into the camp of the harmless,
When can you be useful?
On the mother's mountain,
There will be no worthy citizen
To the fatherland is cold in soul,
He has no bitterer reproach ...
For faith, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You won't die in vain, it's solid,
When blood flows under him.
And you, the poet! heaven's chosen one,
Herald of the truths of the ages,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Do not believe that people have fallen at all;
God did not die in the soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
She will always be available!
Be a citizen! serving the art
Live for the good of your neighbor
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Do not bother to expose them:
In your work they will shine themselves
Their life-giving rays.
Take a look: in the fragments of a hard stone
The wretched worker crushes,
And flies from under the hammer
And the flame splatters by itself!
Poet
Have you finished? .. I almost fell asleep.
Where are we to such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others
It takes a strong soul
And we, with our lazy soul,
Selfish and shy
We are not worth a penny.
Rushing to fame
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the thorny path,
And if we turn to the side -
Gone, even run from the world!
Where are you sorry, the role of the poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the muses from the cradle,
Lord of his deeds
Leads them to a noble goal,
And his work is successful, dispute ...
Citizen
Not a very flattering sentence.
But is it yours? did you say?
You could better judge
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! will be with us merchants, cadets,
Philistines, officials, nobles,
Enough even for us poets,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of his native country?
Where are you, answer? No answer.
And even alien to the poet's soul
His mighty ideal!
But if there is one between us,
With what tears he cries!!.
A heavy lot fell to him,
But he does not ask for a better share:
He, like his own, wears on his body
All the ulcers of their homeland.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The storm roars and drives to the abyss
Freedom is a shaky boat,
The poet curses or at least groans,
And the citizen is silent and tends
Under the yoke of his head.
When ... But I am silent. Though a little
And among us fate showed
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel down!..
Lazy person! your dreams are funny
And frivolous pennies!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is the word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And what a pitiful citizen the voiceless!
Poet
It's not smart to get it
Who doesn't need to be beaten.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in my youth,
Sad, disinterested, difficult,
In short - very reckless, -
Where was my Pegasus zealous!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And proudly left Parnassus.
No disgust, no fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I will not repeat what I saw there ...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear I truly loved!
And what? .. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands
Or pay with your head ...
What was to be done? recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
Whenever I see a fight
I would fight, no matter how hard
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Cunningly life beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And affectionately promised love
I have my best blessings -
The soul retreated fearfully ...
But no matter how many reasons
I do not hide the bitter truth
And timidly bow my head
In a word: an honest citizen.
That fatal, vain flame
Until now, it burns the chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and what did you get out of
Are you the duty of a sacred man?
What a tribute from life took
Are you the son of a sick sick century? ..
When you know my life
My love, my anxiety...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Oh! my farewell song
That song was the first!
Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then, meetings have not been frequent:
Furtively, pale, will come
And whispers fiery words,
And he sings proud songs.
He calls either to the cities, or to the steppe,
Full of cherished intent
But the chains will suddenly rattle -
And she disappears instantly.
I didn't completely shy away from her.
But how afraid! how afraid!
When my neighbor drowned
In the waves of essential grief -
Either the thunder of heaven, or the fury of the sea
I sang good-naturedly.
Scourge of little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I divil the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She cooled down to everything
And the Muse completely turned away,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now in vain I call to her -
Alas! hidden forever.
Like a light, I don't know her myself
And I will never know.
Oh Muse, a random guest
Have you been to my soul?
Ile song is an extraordinary gift
Did fate destined her?
Alas! who knows? rock harsh
He hid everything in deep darkness.
But there was one wreath of thorns
To your gloomy beauty...
Published according to Art 1873, vol. I, part 2, p. 85-101, with errata corrected in vv. 51 (“Unnoble” instead of “But noble”) and in Art. 198 (“When ... But I am silent.” Instead of “When, but I am silent ...”) according to St 1856 (for the rationale for these amendments, see: Bukhshtab B. Ya. Notes on the texts of Nekrasov's poems. - In the book: Edition of classical literature. From the experience of the Poet's Library, Moscow, 1963, pp. 242–257) and the elimination of censorship distortions in Art. 56–57 (according to the GBL autograph), 126–127, 187–192 (according to St 1856) following a number of Soviet publications by Nekrasov (for example, PSS, vol. II).
It has recently been suggested that the replacement of present tense by past tense in v. 56–57 (“prowled” instead of “prowl” and “wandered” instead of “wanders”) was made by Nekrasov in the order of stylistic correction (Gruzdev A. From observations on the text of N. A. Nekrasov’s poem “Poet and Citizen.” - RL, 1960, No. 2, pp. 198–200). However, from the point of view of stylistic verse, this replacement did not benefit, since the past tense here does not agree with the words "now" and "we are living out"; meanwhile, the assignment of the action to the past tense led to a clear weakening of the political sound of poetry; therefore, we join the opinion of K.I. Chukovsky, who believed that the replacement was made in the order of autocensorship, and introduce the reading of the autograph into the main text.
First published and included in the collected works: St. 1856, p. V-XVI. It was reprinted in the 2nd part of all subsequent lifetime editions of "Poems" and in R. B-ke.
The autograph of the entire poem has not been found. Autograph Art. 52 (starting with the words “You are noticeable” - 65 as a separate text in the “Notes” cycle (under No. 1) with the title “To Myself” (the original, crossed out version of the title: “To the Modern Poet”) - GBL (Zap. Tetr. No. 2, l. 42); facsimile reproduced in the publication: Nekrasov N. A. Soch., vol. 1. M., 1954, between pp. 160 and 161; published by Nekrasov without a title as part of Notes on Journals for February 1856 year ": S, 1856, No. 3 (restricted cut - February 29 and March 3, 1856), section V, p. 79. Autograph st. 136–147 - TsGALI (Zap. Tetr., l. 4, as part of the poem "V. G. Belinsky"). These stanzas were included in the poem "To the Russian Writer" (S, 1855, No. 6 (censored cut - May 31, 1855), p. 219, signed: "N. Nekrasov") See: Other editions and variants, p. 265. Rough sketches related to articles 191-197, 204-207, - GBL (Zap. Notebook No. 1, inside back cover).
In Ex. ed. GBL Nekrasov filled in censored notes by hand in Art. 227–229, 267. Ex. ed. GPB Nekrasov, eliminating censorship distortions, in Art. 211 crossed out "truthful" and inscribed "free", and also filled in the censored note in Art. 227–229. In the proofreading of St. 1856, N. X. Ketcher entered by hand two additional quatrains (after st. 131 and after st. 135), which were not included in the printed text (Cor. Ketcher, fol. 58v., 59).
In lifetime editions of "Poems" (beginning with St. 1861) dated: "1856". However, some fragments of the Citizen's monologues were created earlier. Art. 136-147, written in the spring of 1855, as already mentioned, were originally published as part of the poem "To the Russian Writer". Somewhat later, Art. 52–65: their autograph mentioned above is dated (according to the position in Zap. Tetr. No. 2) to the end of 1855 or the beginning of 1856. Nekrasov completed work on The Poet and the Citizen only in the summer of 1856, while at a dacha near Oranienbaum. “I’m writing long poems and I’m tired,” he told I. S. Turgenev on June 27, 1856. Nekrasov was in a hurry to finish “The Poet and the Citizen” in order to introduce it (as a preface) into the St 1856 edition, which had already passed through censorship (restricted. cut - May 14, 1856).
In St 1856, "The Poet and the Citizen" was printed in larger type and with special pagination (Roman numerals). The last circumstance, perhaps, is explained by the fact that these pages were attached to an already laid out book.
When the collection St 1856 went out of print (October 19, 1856), Nekrasov was abroad. On November 5, 1856, Chernyshevsky informed him of the huge success of the book among advanced readers: “Universal delight. Hardly Pushkin's first poems, hardly The Government Inspector or Dead Souls“were as successful as your book” (Chernyshevsky, vol. XIV, p. 321). In No. 11 of Sovremennik for 1856, in Chernyshevsky's review of St. 1856, three poems were completely reprinted: "The Poet and the Citizen", "Excerpts from the travel notes of Count Garansky" and "The Forgotten Village". The reprint was noticed in high society circles, and Alexander II was reported about Nekrasov’s “seditious” book (Chernyshevsky, vol. I, p. 752; Kolokol, 1857, Aug. 1, fol. 2, p. 14–15). A high-profile censorship case arose, and the poem “The Poet and the Citizen” provoked the most violent attacks, “... we are talking here,” Comrade Minister of Public Education P. A. Vyazemsky pointed out in a draft order for the censorship department, “not about moral struggle, but about political<…>here we are not talking about the sacrifices that every citizen is obliged to bring to the fatherland, but about those sacrifices and dangers that threaten a citizen when he rebels against the existing order and is ready to shed his blood in internecine struggle or under the punishment of the law ”(LN, vol. 53–54, pp. 215–216). In the order of the Minister of Public Education A. S. Norov dated November 30, 1856, it was said that in the poem, “of course, not explicitly and not literally, unintentional opinions and sympathies are expressed. Throughout the course of the poem and in some individual expressions, one cannot but admit that it is possible to give this poem the most perverse meaning and meaning ”(Lemke M. Essays on the history of Russian censorship and journalism of the 19th century. St. Petersburg, 1904, p. 312); here they were also written out from the "Poet and Citizen" Art. 54–61, 123–127, and the words “So that it blazes under a storm, illuminating the way for all the people ...” and “... the case is strong, When blood flows under it ...” were emphasized as the most “indecent and inappropriate” (ibid., p. 312-313). The same order prescribed “that henceforth no new edition of N. Nekrasov's Poems be allowed, and that neither articles about this book nor extracts from it be printed”; The editors of Sovremennik announced that “the first such trick will expose<…>journal of perfect cessation” (ibid., p. 313). Nekrasov managed to release a new edition of "Poems" only after much trouble, in 1861. When reprinted in St. 1861, many poems were severely distorted by censorship. The Poet and the Citizen suffered especially. With further reprints, Nekrasov restored a number of bright lines in this poem, but individual distortions remained in the text of all subsequent lifetime editions (see: Other editions and variants, pp. 267–268).
In a simplified interpretation of the poem, E. A. Lyatsky wrote that it reproduces, “without a doubt, one of the most typical conversations between Chernyshevsky and Nekrasov” ( Modern world, 1911, No. 10, p. 170). Of course, the monologues of the Citizen embody the views on the purpose of art that Chernyshevsky propagated at that time (in "The Aesthetic Relations of Art to Reality" and in other works). But the same Citizen's monologues also include Art. 136–147, which are in the draft of the poem “V. G. Belinsky ”were put into the mouth of Belinsky, as well as Art. 52-65, designed in manuscript as Nekrasov's auto-confession and entitled "To Myself".
It is obvious that the views of Chernyshevsky, Belinsky, Nekrasov and other revolutionary democrats are reflected in Grazhdanin's monologues. In the image of the Poet, apparently, there are some traits of Nekrasov's character, but there is undoubtedly a sharp difference in the creative attitudes of the author and the hero; see especially Art. 208–294, where the Poet says that his “soul retreated timidly”, frightened by the struggle (“But ... to die, die ... and when? I was twenty years old then!”), And he moved away from big social topics, became “good-naturedly” to sing about the beauty of nature, etc. The Citizen and the Poet are images that have a generalized character.
Since in Nekrasov's lifetime editions the text of "The Poet and the Citizen" was printed with censorship distortions and cuts, readers restored the pre-censored versions in their copies of Nekrasov's book (sometimes with discrepancies) - see Ex. Vasilkovsky, Ex. GBL, Ex. Gerbel, Ex. Evgeniev-Maksimova, Ex. Efremova 1859, Ex. IRLI b, Ex. Lazarevsky, Ex. Museum N., Ex. Chukovsky. Some uncensored versions were also restored in the Modzalevsky List and in foreign counterfeiting - St 1862.
Calling on his friend M. I. Shemanovsky to “internal work on oneself” (i.e., to cultivating strong revolutionary convictions in oneself), N. A. Dobrolyubov, in a letter to him dated August 6, 1859, quoted “The Poet and the Citizen” ; he wrote: “With the loss of the external opportunity for such activity, we will die, but we will still not die in vain ... Remember:
The son cannot look calmly
On the mother's mountain ... etc.
Read ten verses, and at the end of them you will see more clearly what I want to say” (Dobrolyubov, vol. IX, p. 378). In the last phrase, Dobrolyubov drew his friend's attention to lines that were considered especially "seditious" at that time:
Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland,
For faith, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You will not die in vain: the matter is solid,
When blood flows under him ...
“Look, where did you throw it!” - a hidden quote from Gogol (in the "Inspector", d. 2, yavl. 8: "Ek, where did you throw it!").
"Not for worldly excitement ..." - a quote from Pushkin's poem "The Poet and the Crowd" (1828).
And you, the poet! the chosen one of heaven ... - Nekrasov uses Pushkin's characterization of the Poet (from the same poem): "the chosen one of heaven."
Be a citizen! serving art ... - Initially (as part of the poem "Russian Writer") this line had a different edition: "Serve not glory, not art", - and caused a remark by I. S. Turgenev, who wrote to I. I. Panaev on July 10, 1855 .: “I wish I knew - Nekrasov’s verse (in the poem“ To the Russian Writer ”):
Serve not glory, not art -
probably a typo instead of: but art? (Turgenev, Letters, vol. II, p. 298). Nekrasov did not accept the amendment proposed by Turgenev, but he redid the line so that it could not be seen as a dismissive attitude towards art.
You may not be a poet, but you must be a citizen. - Nekrasov paraphrases the formula of K. F. Ryleev (from the dedication to the poem "Voinarovsky", 1823-1825): "I am not a poet, but a citizen." This formula (without naming Ryleev because of censorship) was given by N. G. Chernyshevsky in the 4th article from the cycle “Essays on the Gogol period of Russian literature” (S, 1856, No. 4). It is possible that this article, well known to Nekrasov (he was busy about its publication before the censor V. N. Beketov), reminded him of the Ryleev formula (see: Garkavy A. M. Chernyshevsky and Nekrasov's poem "The Poet and the Citizen." - In: N. G. Chernyshevsky, Articles, research and materials, issue 5. Saratov, 1968, pp. 54–57).
Cadets are pupils of noble military schools.
Leader - provincial or district marshal of the nobility, elected administrative positions.
Planter - here: a landowner living on his estate.
At least a little, And among us fate showed Worthy citizens ... - Against these lines (printed with the option: instead of "among us" - "in our days") in Ex. ed. The GPB scribe made a note: "Here they saw a hint of the fate of the Decembrists." However, it must be assumed that Nekrasov had in mind not only the Decembrists, but also the Petrashevists and other revolutionaries who were repressed by the tsarist government.
I swear I honestly hated it! I swear I truly loved! - N. G. Chernyshevsky, who saw Nekrasov’s auto-recognition in these verses, wrote to him on November 5, 1856: “... You are not talking about love for a woman, but about love for people - but here you have even less right to lose heart for yourself:”
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear I truly loved!
Wouldn't it be more accurate to say to you about yourself:
…I honestly hate it!
… I sincerely love!
(Chernyshevsky, vol. XIV, p. 324).
Year of writing: 1855-1856
~ Poet and Citizen Poet and citizen
Citizen (included)
Alone again, harsh again
Lies - and does not write anything.
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
C iv i n i n
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in it, believe me,
It's just plain stupidity.
A wild animal can lie down...
So what?
C iv i n i n
Yes, it's embarrassing to look at.
Well, then go away.
C iv i n i n
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled down,
Who has an incorruptible heart,
In whom is talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first you have to give.
C iv i n i n
Here's the news! You're dealing
You just fell asleep for a while
Wake up: smash the vices boldly ...
A! I know: "Look, where did you throw it!"1
But I'm a shelled bird.
Too bad I don't feel like talking.
(Picks up book.)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read and stop complaining!
Citizen (reads)
"Not for worldly excitement,
Not for self-interest, not for battles,
We are born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers2".
P o e t (with delight)
Incredible sounds!
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear I wouldn't pick up a pen!
C iv i n i n
Yes, the sounds are wonderful ... cheers!
Their power is so amazing
That even sleepy blues
Jumped from the soul of the poet.
I rejoice sincerely - it's time!
And I share your enthusiasm
But, I confess, your poems
I take it to heart.
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So you think I'm great
Is a poet taller than Pushkin?
Say please?!.
C iv i n i n
Oh no!
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Disgraceful and offensive
Your verse is poignant. You are noticeable
But without the sun, the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams free
And the man wanders timidly, -
You firmly held your light,
But the sky didn't like it
So that he blazed under the storm,
Illuminating the way nationwide;
Trembling spark in the dark
He was a little on fire, blinking, rushing about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But as long as
The sun is nowhere to be seen
It's a shame to sleep with your talent;
Even more ashamed in the hour of grief
The beauty of valleys, skies and seas
And sing sweet affection ...
The storm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The heavens argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
Barely shakes the sails -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the heart of travelers is calm,
As if instead of a ship
Below them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning
And the tackle is tearing, and the mast is tilting, -
No time to play chess
It's not time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it in a cabin remote
You would become a lyre inspired
Delight sloths ears
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to the appointment
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
In front of good hearts,
To whom the homeland is holy.
God help them!.. And the rest?
Their goal is small, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers
And the third ... the third - the wise men:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person
They do nothing, saying:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do not harm!
Cunningly hides the haughty mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Do not believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid to share their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go into the camp of the harmless,
When can you be useful?
The son cannot look calmly
On the mother's mountain,
There will be no worthy citizen
To the fatherland is cold in soul,
He has no bitterness...
Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You won't die in vain, it's solid,
When blood flows under him...
And you, the poet! heaven's chosen one,
Herald of the truths of the ages,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Do not believe that people have fallen at all;
God did not die in the soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
She will always be available!
Be a citizen! serving the art
Live for the good of your neighbor
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Do not bother to expose them:
In your work they will shine themselves
Their life-giving rays.
Take a look: in the fragments of a hard stone
The wretched worker crushes,
And flies from under the hammer
And the flame splatters by itself!
Have you finished? .. I almost fell asleep.
Where are we to such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others
It takes a strong soul
And we, with our lazy soul,
Selfish and shy
We are not worth a penny.
Rushing to fame
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the thorny path,
And if we turn to the side -
Gone, even run from the world!
Where are you sorry, the role of the poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Lord of his deeds
Leads them to a noble goal,
And his work is successful, dispute ...
C iv i n i n
Not a very flattering sentence.
But is it yours? did you say?
You could better judge
You may not be a poet
But you must be a citizen.3
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! there will be merchants, cadets from us,
Philistines, officials, nobles,
Enough even for us poets,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader5, not a planter6,
Who is a citizen of his native country?
Where are you? respond? No answer.
And even alien to the poet's soul
His mighty ideal!
But if there is one between us,
With what tears he cries!!.
A heavy lot fell to him,
But he does not ask for a better share:
He, like his own, wears on his body
All the ulcers of their homeland.
... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ...
The storm roars and drives to the abyss
Freedom is a shaky boat,
The poet curses or at least groans,
And the citizen is silent and tends
Under the yoke of his head.
When ... But I am silent. Though a little
And among us fate showed
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel down!..
Lazy person! your dreams are funny
And frivolous penalties!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is the word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And what a pitiful citizen the voiceless!
It's not smart to get it
Who doesn't need to be beaten.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in my youth,
Sad, disinterested, difficult,
In short - very reckless,
Where was my Pegasus zealous!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And proudly left Parnassus.
No disgust, no fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I won't repeat what I saw there...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear I truly loved!
And what? .. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands
Or pay with your head ...
What was to be done? recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
Whenever I see a fight
I would fight, no matter how hard
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Cunningly life beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And affectionately promised love
I have my best blessings -
The soul retreated fearfully ...
But no matter how many reasons
I do not hide the bitter truth
And timidly bow my head
At the word "honest citizen".
That fatal, vain flame
Until now, it burns the chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and what did you get out of
Are you the duty of a sacred man?
What a tribute from life took
Are you the son of a sick sick century? ..
When you know my life
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Oh! my farewell song
That song was the first!
Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then, meetings have not been frequent:
Furtively, pale, will come
And whispers fiery words,
And he sings proud songs.
He calls either to the cities, or to the steppe,
Full of cherished intent
But the chains will suddenly rattle -
And she disappears instantly.
I didn't completely shy away from her.
But how afraid! how afraid!
When my neighbor drowned
In the waves of essential grief -
Either the thunder of heaven, or the fury of the sea
I sang good-naturedly.
Scourge of little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I divil the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She cooled down to everything
And the Muse completely turned away,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now in vain I call to her -
Alas! Hidden forever.
Like a light, I don't know her myself
And I will never know.
Oh Muse, a random guest
Have you been to my soul?
Ile song is an extraordinary gift
Did fate destined her?
Alas! who knows? rock harsh
He hid everything in deep darkness.
But there was one wreath of thorns
To your sullen beauty...
"Citizen":
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Disgraceful and offensive
Your verse is poignant.
You are noticeable
But without the sun, the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams free
And the man wanders timidly, -
You firmly held your light,
But the sky didn't like it
So that he blazed under the storm,
Illuminating the way nationwide;
Trembling spark in the dark
He was a little on fire, blinking, rushing about.
Pray that he waited for the sun And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin.
But as long as
The sun is nowhere to be seen
It's a shame to sleep with your talent;
Even more ashamed in the hour of grief
The beauty of valleys, skies and seas
And sing sweet affection ...
The storm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The heavens argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
Barely shakes the sails, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the heart of travelers is calm,
As if instead of a ship
Below them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck: the storm groans,
And the tackle breaks, and the mast tends, -
No time to play chess
It's not time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Already in a cabin remote
You would become a lyre inspired
Delight sloths ears
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to the appointment
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
Good hearts across the board,
To whom the homeland is holy.
God help them!.. And the rest?
Their goal is shallow, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers
And the third ... the third - the wise men:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person
They do nothing, saying:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do not harm!
Cunningly hides the haughty mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Do not believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid to share their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go into the camp of the harmless,
When can you be useful?
The son cannot look calmly
On the mother's mountain,
There will be no worthy citizen
To the fatherland is cold in soul,
He has no bitterness...
Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You won't die in vain, it's solid,
When blood flows under him...
And you, the poet! heaven's chosen one,
Herald of the truths of the ages,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Do not believe that people have fallen at all;
God did not die in the soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
She will always be available!
Be a citizen! serving the art
Live for the good of your neighbor
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Do not bother to expose them:
In your work they will shine themselves
Their life-giving rays.
Take a look: in the fragments of a solid stone
The wretched worker crushes,
And flies from under the hammer
And the flame splatters by itself!
"Poet":
Have you finished? .. I almost fell asleep.
Where are we to such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others
It takes a strong soul
And we, with our lazy soul,
Selfish and shy
We are not worth a penny.
Rushing to fame
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the thorny path,
And if we turn aside -
Gone, even run from the world!
Where are you sorry, the role of the poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the muses from the cradle,
Lord of his deeds
Leads them to a noble goal
And his work is successful, dispute ...
"Citizen":
Not a very flattering sentence.
But is it yours? did you say?
You could better judge
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! will be with us merchants, cadets,
Philistines, officials, nobles,
Enough even for us poets,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of his native country?
Where are you, answer? No answer.
And even alien to the poet's soul
His mighty ideal!
But if there is one between us,
With what tears he cries!!.
A heavy lot fell to him,
But he does not ask for a better share:
He, like his own, wears on his body
All the ulcers of their homeland.
Citizen(included)
Alone again, harsh again
Lies - and does not write anything.
Poet
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
Citizen
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in it, believe me,
It's just plain stupidity.
A wild beast can lie down...
Poet
So what?
Citizen
Yes, it's embarrassing to look at.
Poet
Well, then go away.
Citizen
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled down,
Who has an incorruptible heart,
In whom is talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Poet
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first you have to give.
Citizen
Here's the news! You're dealing
You just fell asleep for a while
Wake up: smash the vices boldly ...
Poet
A! I know: “Look, where did you throw it!”
But I'm a shelled bird.
Too bad I don't feel like talking.
(Picks up book)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read - and stop reproaching!
Citizen(is reading)
"Not for worldly excitement,
Not for self-interest, not for battles,
We are born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers.
Poet(with delight)
Incredible sounds!
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear I wouldn't pick up a pen!
Citizen
Yes, the sounds are wonderful ... hooray!
Their power is so amazing
That even sleepy blues
Jumped from the soul of the poet.
I rejoice sincerely - it's time!
And I share your enthusiasm
But, I confess, your poems
I take it to heart.
Poet
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So you think I'm great
Is a poet taller than Pushkin?
Say please?!.
Citizen
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Disgraceful and offensive
Your verse is poignant. You are noticeable
But without the sun, the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams free
And the man wanders timidly, -
You firmly held your light,
But the sky didn't like it
So that he blazed under the storm,
Illuminating the way nationwide;
Trembling spark in the dark
He was a little on fire, blinking, rushing about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But as long as
The sun is nowhere to be seen
It's a shame to sleep with your talent;
Even more ashamed in the hour of grief
The beauty of valleys, skies and seas
And sing sweet affection ...
The storm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The skies are arguing in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
Barely shakes the sails, -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the heart of travelers is calm,
As if instead of a ship
Below them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning
And the tackle is tearing, and the mast is tilting, -
No time to play chess
It's not time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it in a cabin remote
You would become an inspirational lyre
Delight sloths ears
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to the appointment
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
In front of good hearts,
To whom the homeland is holy.
God help them!.. And the rest?
Their goal is shallow, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers
And the third ... the third - the wise men:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person
They do nothing, saying:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do not harm!
Cunningly hides the haughty mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Do not believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid to share their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go into the camp of the harmless,
When can you be useful?
The son cannot look calmly
On the mother's mountain,
There will be no worthy citizen
To the fatherland is cold in soul,
He has no bitterer reproach ...
Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland,
For faith, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You will not die in vain: the matter is solid,
When blood flows under him ...
And you, the poet! heaven's chosen one,
Herald of the truths of the ages,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Do not believe that people have fallen at all;
God did not die in the soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
She will always be available!
Be a citizen! serving the art
Live for the good of your neighbor
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Do not bother to expose them:
In your work they will shine themselves
Their life-giving rays.
Take a look: in the fragments of a hard stone
The wretched worker crushes,
And flies from under the hammer
And the flame splatters by itself!
Poet
Have you finished? .. I almost fell asleep.
Where are we to such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others
It takes a strong soul
And we, with our lazy soul,
Selfish and shy
We are not worth a penny.
Rushing to fame
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the thorny path,
And if we turn to the side -
Gone, even run from the world!
Where are you sorry, the role of the poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Lord of his deeds
Leads them to a grateful goal,
And his work is successful, dispute ...
Citizen
Not a very flattering sentence.
But is it yours? did you say?
You could better judge
You may not be a poet
But you have to be a citizen.
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! will be with us merchants, cadets,
Philistines, officials, nobles,
Enough even for us poets,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader, not a planter,
Who is a citizen of his native country?
Where are you? respond! No answer.
And even alien to the poet's soul
His mighty ideal!
But if there is one between us,
With what tears he cries!!.
A heavy lot fell to him,
But he does not ask for a better share:
He, like his own, wears on his body
All the ulcers of their homeland.
__________________
The storm roars and drives to the abyss
Freedom is a shaky boat,
The poet curses or at least groans,
And the citizen is silent and tends
Under the yoke of his head.
When ... But I am silent. Though a little
And among us fate showed
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel down!..
Lazy person! your dreams are funny
And frivolous pennies!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is the word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And what a pitiful citizen the voiceless!
Poet
It's not smart to get it
Who doesn't need to be beaten.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in my youth,
Sad, disinterested, difficult,
In short - very reckless, -
Where was my Pegasus zealous!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And proudly left Parnassus.
No disgust, no fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I will not repeat what I saw there ...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear I truly loved!
And what? .. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands
Or pay with your head ...
What was to be done? recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
Whenever I see a fight
I would fight, no matter how hard
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Cunningly life beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And affectionately promised love
I have my best blessings -
The soul retreated fearfully ...
But no matter how many reasons
I do not hide the bitter truth
And timidly bow my head
At the word "honest citizen".
That fatal, vain flame
Until now, it burns the chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and what did you get out of
Are you the duty of a sacred man?
What a tribute from life took
Are you the son of a sick sick century? ..
When you know my life
My love, my anxiety...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Ah, my farewell song
That song was the first!
Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then, meetings have not been frequent:
Furtively, pale, will come
And whispers fiery words,
And he sings proud songs.
He calls either to the cities, or to the steppe,
Full of cherished intent
But the chains will suddenly rattle -
And she disappears instantly.
I didn't completely shy away from her.
But how afraid! how afraid!
When my neighbor drowned
In the waves of essential grief -
Either the thunder of heaven, or the fury of the sea
I sang good-naturedly.
Scourge of little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I divil the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She cooled down to everything
And the Muse completely turned away,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now in vain I call to her -
Alas! hidden forever.
Like a light, I don't know her myself
And I will never know.
Oh Muse, a random guest
Have you appeared to my soul?
Ile song is an extraordinary gift
Did fate destined her?
Alas! who knows? rock harsh
He hid everything in deep darkness.
But there was one wreath of thorns
To your gloomy beauty...
Citizen (included)
Alone again, harsh again
Lies - and does not write anything.
Add: moping and barely breathing -
And my portrait will be ready.
C iv i n i n
Nice portrait! No nobility
There is no beauty in it, believe me,
It's just plain stupidity.
A wild animal can lie down...
So what?
C iv i n i n
Yes, it's embarrassing to look at.
Well, then go away.
C iv i n i n
Listen: shame on you!
It's time to get up! You know yourself
What time has come;
In whom the sense of duty has not cooled down,
Who has an incorruptible heart,
In whom is talent, strength, accuracy,
Tom shouldn't sleep now...
Let's say I'm such a rarity
But first you have to give.
C iv i n i n
Here's the news! You're dealing
You just fell asleep for a while
Wake up: smash the vices boldly ...
A! I know: "Look, where did you throw it!"1
But I'm a shelled bird.
Too bad I don't feel like talking.
(Picks up book.)
Savior Pushkin! - Here is the page:
Read and stop complaining!
Citizen (reads)
"Not for worldly excitement,
Not for self-interest, not for battles,
We are born to inspire
For sweet sounds and prayers2".
P o e t (with delight)
Incredible sounds!
Whenever with my Muse
I was a little smarter
I swear I wouldn't pick up a pen!
C iv i n i n
Yes, the sounds are wonderful ... cheers!
Their power is so amazing
That even sleepy blues
Jumped from the soul of the poet.
I rejoice sincerely - it's time!
And I share your enthusiasm
But, I confess, your poems
I take it to heart.
Don't talk nonsense!
You are a zealous reader, but a wild critic.
So you think I'm great
Is a poet taller than Pushkin?
Say please?!.
C iv i n i n
Oh no!
Your poems are stupid
Your elegies are not new
Satyrs are alien to beauty,
Disgraceful and offensive
Your verse is poignant. You are noticeable
But without the sun, the stars are visible.
In the night that is now
We live fearfully
When the beast roams free
And the man wanders timidly, -
You firmly held your light,
But the sky didn't like it
So that he blazed under the storm,
Illuminating the way nationwide;
Trembling spark in the dark
He was a little on fire, blinking, rushing about.
Pray that he waits for the sun
And drowned in its rays!
No, you are not Pushkin. But as long as
The sun is nowhere to be seen
It's a shame to sleep with your talent;
Even more ashamed in the hour of grief
The beauty of valleys, skies and seas
And sing sweet affection ...
The storm is silent, with a bottomless wave
The heavens argue in the radiance,
And the wind is gentle and sleepy
Barely shakes the sails -
The ship runs beautifully, harmoniously,
And the heart of travelers is calm,
As if instead of a ship
Below them is solid ground.
But the thunder struck; the storm is moaning
And the tackle is tearing, and the mast is tilting, -
No time to play chess
It's not time to sing songs!
Here is a dog - and he knows the danger
And barks furiously into the wind:
He has nothing else to do...
What would you do, poet?
Is it in a cabin remote
You would become a lyre inspired
Delight sloths ears
And drown out the roar of the storm?
May you be faithful to the appointment
But is it easier for your homeland,
Where everyone is devoted to worship
Your single personality?
In front of good hearts,
To whom the homeland is holy.
God help them!.. And the rest?
Their goal is small, their life is empty.
Some are money-grubbers and thieves,
Others are sweet singers
And the third ... the third - the wise men:
Their purpose is conversation.
Protecting your person
They do nothing, saying:
"Our tribe is incorrigible,
We don't want to die for nothing
We are waiting: maybe time will help,
And we are proud that we do not harm!
Cunningly hides the haughty mind
Selfish dreams
But... my brother! whoever you are
Do not believe this despicable logic!
Be afraid to share their fate,
Rich in word, poor in deed,
And do not go into the camp of the harmless,
When can you be useful?
The son cannot look calmly
On the mother's mountain,
There will be no worthy citizen
To the fatherland is cold in soul,
He has no bitterness...
Go into the fire for the honor of the fatherland,
For conviction, for love...
Go and die flawlessly.
You won't die in vain, it's solid,
When blood flows under him...
And you, the poet! heaven's chosen one,
Herald of the truths of the ages,
Do not believe that he who does not have bread
Not worth your prophetic strings!
Do not believe that people have fallen at all;
God did not die in the soul of people,
And a cry from a believing chest
She will always be available!
Be a citizen! serving the art
Live for the good of your neighbor
Subordinating your genius to feeling
All-embracing Love;
And if you are rich in gifts,
Do not bother to expose them:
In your work they will shine themselves
Their life-giving rays.
Take a look: in the fragments of a hard stone
The wretched worker crushes,
And flies from under the hammer
And the flame splatters by itself!
Have you finished? .. I almost fell asleep.
Where are we to such views!
You've gone too far.
It takes a genius to teach others
It takes a strong soul
And we, with our lazy soul,
Selfish and shy
We are not worth a penny.
Rushing to fame
We are afraid to go astray
And we walk along the thorny path,
And if we turn to the side -
Gone, even run from the world!
Where are you sorry, the role of the poet!
Blessed is the silent citizen:
He, alien to the Muses from the cradle,
Lord of his deeds
Leads them to a noble goal,
And his work is successful, dispute ...
C iv i n i n
Not a very flattering sentence.
But is it yours? did you say?
You could better judge
You may not be a poet
But you must be a citizen.3
What is a citizen?
Fatherland worthy son.
Oh! there will be merchants, cadets from us,
Philistines, officials, nobles,
Enough even for us poets,
But we need, we need citizens!
But where are they? Who is not a senator
Not a writer, not a hero,
Not a leader5, not a planter6,
Who is a citizen of his native country?
Where are you? respond? No answer.
And even alien to the poet's soul
His mighty ideal!
But if there is one between us,
With what tears he cries!!.
A heavy lot fell to him,
But he does not ask for a better share:
He, like his own, wears on his body
All the ulcers of their homeland.
... ... ... ... ...
... ... ... ... ...
The storm roars and drives to the abyss
Freedom is a shaky boat,
The poet curses or at least groans,
And the citizen is silent and tends
Under the yoke of his head.
When ... But I am silent. Though a little
And among us fate showed
Worthy citizens... You know
Their fate?.. Kneel down!..
Lazy person! your dreams are funny
And frivolous penalties!
Your comparison makes no sense.
Here is the word of impartial truth:
Blessed is the chattering poet,
And what a pitiful citizen the voiceless!
It's not smart to get it
Who doesn't need to be beaten.
You're right: it's easier for a poet to live -
There is joy in free speech.
But was I involved in it?
Ah, in my youth,
Sad, disinterested, difficult,
In short - very reckless,
Where was my Pegasus zealous!
Not roses - I wove nettles
In his sweeping mane
And proudly left Parnassus.
No disgust, no fear
I went to prison and to the place of execution,
I went to courts and hospitals.
I won't repeat what I saw there...
I swear I honestly hated it!
I swear I truly loved!
And what? .. hearing my sounds,
They considered them black slander;
I had to fold my hands
Or pay with your head ...
What was to be done? recklessly
Blame people, blame fate.
Whenever I see a fight
I would fight, no matter how hard
But... perish, perish... and when?
I was twenty years old then!
Cunningly life beckoned forward,
Like free streams of the sea,
And affectionately promised love
I have my best blessings -
The soul retreated fearfully ...
But no matter how many reasons
I do not hide the bitter truth
And timidly bow my head
At the word "honest citizen".
That fatal, vain flame
Until now, it burns the chest,
And I'm glad if someone
He will throw a stone at me with contempt.
Poor man! and what did you get out of
Are you the duty of a sacred man?
What a tribute from life took
Are you the son of a sick sick century? ..
When you know my life
My love, my worries...
Gloomy and full of bitterness,
I'm standing at the door of the coffin...
Oh! my farewell song
That song was the first!
Muse bowed her sad face
And, quietly sobbing, she left.
Since then, meetings have not been frequent:
Furtively, pale, will come
And whispers fiery words,
And he sings proud songs.
He calls either to the cities, or to the steppe,
Full of cherished intent
But the chains will suddenly rattle -
And she disappears instantly.
I didn't completely shy away from her.
But how afraid! how afraid!
When my neighbor drowned
In the waves of essential grief -
Either the thunder of heaven, or the fury of the sea
I sang good-naturedly.
Scourge of little thieves
For the pleasure of the big ones,
I divil the audacity of the boys
And he was proud of their praise.
Under the yoke of years the soul bent,
She cooled down to everything
And the Muse completely turned away,
Full of bitter contempt.
Now in vain I call to her -
Alas! Hidden forever.
Like a light, I don't know her myself
And I will never know.
Oh Muse, a random guest
Have you been to my soul?
Ile song is an extraordinary gift
Did fate destined her?
Alas! who knows? rock harsh
He hid everything in deep darkness.
But there was one wreath of thorns
To your sullen beauty...