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Until the poet by Apollo
To sacred sacrifice is called,
In this world’s cares, so vain and hollow,
Нe is faint-heartedly enthralled. His holy lyre’s hushed; songs – unwritten,
Cold sleep his soul tastes bitterly,
And ‘midst this world’s unhappy children,
Unhappiest, perhaps, is he. But once, divine, the word, the prize
So slightly nuzzles his keen ears,
The poet’s soul stirs up and rears,
Like an awakened eagle, cries. He grieves at this world’s pastimes idle,
He flees the rumor of the crowd.
Before the feet of all men’s idol
He does not bend his head so proud. But stern, but wild, away he roves,
And full of sounds and aches he raves
By coasts where desolate crash the waves,
By spreading, rustling, oak-leaf groves… Alexander Pushkin,
Translated by Julian Henry Lowenfeld |
