O blazing Muse of pure satire!
Come forth on my inviting call!
I do not need the thundering lyre,
Give me the scourge of Juvenal!
And neither lifeless imitators
Nor hungry, gluttonous translators,
Nor rhymesters, unsatisfied,
Shall fester from my pen tonight.
Peace to the poets, poor creators,
Peace to the journal’s adulators,
Peace to the fools who have been tamed!
But rascals, you I’ll put to shame, —
Come forth you villains, don’t resist!
And everyone I’ll punished then
But if by chance one I shall miss,
Please do remind me, gentlemen!
How many faces -- shameless-pale,
How many forehands — dull and stale,
Stand here, all ready to acquire
The timeless imprint of my lyre!
О муза пламенной сатиры!
Приди на мой призывный клич!
Не нужно мне гремящей лиры,
Вручи мне Ювеналов бич!
Не подражателям холодным,
Не переводчикам голодным,
Не безответным рифмачам
Готовлю язвы эпиграмм!
Мир вам, несчастные поэты,
Мир вам, журнальные клевреты,
Мир вам, смиренные глупцы!
А вы, ребята подлецы, —
Вперёд! Всю вашу сволочь буду
Я мучить казнию стыда!
Но если же кого забуду,
Прошу напомнить, господа!
О, сколько лиц бесстыдно-бледных,
О, сколько лбов широко-медных
Готовы от меня принять
Неизгладимую печать!
«Goodbye, my friend, goodbye. / My dear, you’re in my chest. / This preordained parting / promises a reunion ahead. Goodbye, my friend, without a hand, without a word. / Don’t be sad and don’t furrow your brow. / In this life, dying isn’t news, / Though living, of course, isn’t»
«The sleepy garden scatters beetles / Like bronze cinders from braziers. / Level with me and with my candle / There hangs a flowering universe. As if into a new religion / I cross the threshold of this night, / Where the grey decaying poplar / Has veiled the moon's bright edge from sight...»
«Like a belated gift, / Winter’s palpable to me: / and I’m in love with / it’s first uncertain sweep. It’s terror’s beautiful, / like the start of what’s dreadful: / even the ravens fearful / of its leafless circle. But most intense, fragile – / is its bulging blueness: ...»
«Snow, snow the whole world over, / Sweeping it, end to end. / The candle burned on the table, / the candle burned. Like a crowd of summer midges / flying to the flame, / droves of snowflakes swarmed / against the window pane. Snow-blasts moulded circles, / arrows on the glass. / Th...»