Alexander Pushkin

Let a Bard

Let a bard, with his hired cup of incense, Runs aft the skirts of happiness and buzz, I’m feared of light; goes by my dark existence, Known by none on its ov’rgrown path. Let choir of singers, with their praises, roaring, Give immortality to many a half-god, My voice is still; with loud string and boring, I will not stir my always mute abode. And let ovids sing love in each their ode, I’m robbed of peace by shadow Tsitereya’s, Cupids don’t send me happy days’ a lot: I sing a sleep – the great gift from Morpheus; I’ll well-teach you, how, in a silent grip, To lie in peace in a strong and pleasant sleep. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver

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