(Moi dar ubog, i golos moi negromok)

My gift is faint, my singing voice is feeble,

And yet I live, and probably on earth

My being has in someone's eyes some worth:

In verses mine, my offspring will be able

To see it. And my soul will (who can tell?)

With this man's soul establish a relation:

I’ve found a friend amid my generation—

A reader ‘mid my scions I’ll find as well.

Not later than 1828 (1829)

(Gluptsy ne chuzhdy vdokhnoven’ia)

Fools are not barred from inspiration;

Some fervid moments of elation

With geniuses they may well share:

Each plant receives an invitation

To bloom in spring's life-giving air.

A tale of all things being equal,

Fools’ love of cabbage is immense,

But laurels are not in the sequel:

They are not born of flatulence.

1828 (1829)

(Ne podrazhai: svoeobrazen genii)

Don't imitate: unique is every genius;

Unique are greatness and a great man's fame;

Dorat or Shakespeare— never mind the frame:

Cheap is a double, even if ingenious.

Remember Israel! The Highest bade

That graven images should not be made.

Inspired Mickiewicz, when I see you lying

At Byron's feet, obedient to his nod,

O prostrate worshiper! I feel like crying:

“Arise, arise, you are like him a god.”

1828 (1829)

. (Slykhal ia, dobrye druz’ia)

Our forefathers, when sad or sick

(I am like them and am not sorry

To pass along their truthful story),

Appealed in trouble to Old Nick.

But do not fear: my latest crony

Is not the Devil, not the one

With whose sly blandishments and money

Zhukovsky's Thunderclap was won.

Just listen to me: at my cradle

There used to sit a tender imp

And croon, obedient to his whim,

A tale, a ditty, or a fable.

By now my gait and mind are stable—

For him alone I am a wimp,

To walk and reason still unable.

When in my hut I sit depressed

Or lose for life and pleasure zest,

Or things begin to look too tragic,

I wave my hand. Lo and behold,