To Zhukovsky

When you hold on your laps your lyre With your, lost of a patience, hand, With your elated soul flying Into the full of fancies land; When visions run in a succession Before you in the darkness fair – And the fast cold of inspiration, On your head rises tangled hair – You’re right: you’re singing not for crowds, Not for the jealous judges’ use, Not for the measurable hounds Hunting the others’ thoughts and news, But for the comrades of the talents, Severe comrades of a truth. Not everyone by fate is treasured Or has been born for crowns, glossed. He’s blessed, who knows a great pleasure Of the elated thoughts and verse! Who, in his heart, is blessed to bear Enjoying of the blessing light, And understood all your delight With his delight, so flamed and clear. Translated by Yevgeny Bonver