O you the ancient rhymes and rhythms,
Seized on by many poets,
The banal, cheap, and puny ones,
Cliches overcooked and boiled!
You sound with the guitar strings,
With rhythms and rhyme impoverished,
Than all new things more beautiful
To my simplistic soul!
You were under Derzhavin,
You were under Nekrasov
You were under Nikitin,
And under Tolstoy too!
Oh you — just like an avalanche!
And though you were discarded,
And though new ones are written —
You burst into my book!
I greet you, my dear loyal ones,
The fully tried and tested ones,
The musical and flowerful
And most beloved by me!
Exemplary companions
You dear ones, you tender ones,
The happy and the sorrowful
The nightingale-like rhythms!
О вы, размеры старые,
Захватанные многими,
Банальные, дешёвые,
Готовые клише!
Звучащие гитарою,
И с рифмами убогими —
Прекраснее, чем новые,
Простой моей душе!
Вы были при Державине,
Вы были при Некрасове,
Вы были при Никитине,
Вы были при Толстом!
О вы — подобны ла́вине!
И как вас не выбрасывай,
Что новое не вытяни, —
Вы проситесь в мой том.
Приветствую вас, верные
Испытанно-надёжные,
Округло-музыкальные,
Любимые мои!
О вы — друзья примерные,
Вы, милые, вы, нежные
Весёлые, печальные,
Размеры — соловьи!
«The gypsy passion of parting! / You meet it — and you take flight! / I dropped the arms and the forehead / And think staring into the night: No one, digging in our letters, / Understood in all depth / How we're sacrilegious — that is / How we in each other have faith...»
«Marvelous night picture, / It's so dear to me: / White plain, wintry mixture, / Full moon carefree, / / Light of soaring heaven, / Shiny snow display, / And a lonely racing / Of the distant sleigh.»
«As a wavy cloud, / Dust soars from wind gust; / Horsed man or dismounted — / Can't see in the dust! / / I see: someone's riding / Splendid dashing steed. / My friend, distant buddy, / Reminisce of me!»
«I have come to please you, dear, / To impart the sun be ardent, / Tell you that its glares quiver / On the leaves of the green garden; / Come to tell you: in the forest / Branches talk with animation, / Every early bird is earnest, — / Woods are full of a spring passion. /...»