Alexander Pushkin


The lazy artist-boor is blacking The genius's picture with his stuff, Without any sense a-making His low drawing above. But alien paints, in stride of years, Are falling down as a dust, The genius's masterpiece appears With former brilliance to us. Like this, the darkly apparitions Are leaving off my tortured heart, And it again revives the visions Of virgin days I left behind. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

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