To I. I. Puschin

Best of all friends, dear friend my own! And I my sober fortune hailed When yard of mine, so poor and lone, Covered with snow, thick and solemn, Filled sound of your little bell. I pray the sacred destination: Let my voice, deafened in these realms, Too give your soul consolation, And let it lighten isolation With our Alma Mater’s beams! Translated by Yevgeny Bonver