I don't disturb, I do not sing
With a woman's poison. Hand
That is loyal I give to you —
Right one, that will hold the pen.
That, with which I form the cross
In the beauty of the night.
That, with which the things that God
Did command to me I write.
My left hand is daring,
Flattering and also sly.
Here to you the righteous
And right hand do proffer I.
Не смущаю, не пою
Женскою отравою.
Руку верную даю —
Пишущую, правую.
Той, которою крещу
На ночь — ненаглядную
Той, которою пишу
То, что Богом задано.
Левая — она дерзка,
Льстивая, лукавая.
Вот тебе моя рука —
Праведная, правая!
«Last cloud of a storm that is scattered and over, / Alone in the skies of bright azure you hover, / Alone with sad shadows you float on your way, / Alone you throw gloom on the joy of the day. By you all the heaven was lately confounded, / You were with the hideous lightning surrounded, / ...»
«Until the poet hears Apollo’s / Call to the hallowed sacrifice, / The petty cares of life he follows, / And sunk in them his spirit lies. / His holy lyre remains unsounded; / His spirit sleeps in numbing rest, / By an unworthy world surrounded, / Himself perhaps unworthiest. But onc...»
«Deep down in the Siberian mine, / Keep up your long-enduring pride; / Your mournful toil is not in vain, / Nor thoughts that rapturously ride. Misfortune’s sister, Hope, is true, / And in the subterranean night / Shall waken courage and delight. / The welcome day shall dawn for you. ...»
«Take not away my wits, O God! / Better the beggar’s scrip and rod, / To toil and not to eat! / It is not that I hold my mind / Of much account, or would not find / The parting from it sweet. If only they would set me free / To my own will, how glad I’d be / To...»