Meantime account, made for you, In details I shall give to you,
XLIII
But now, heartily I though Do love my hero fine,
Of course, of him I’ll quickly know,- For him I now haven’t time.
My age inclines for strict a prose, Against light rhymes my age arose
And I - with sighing I confess - Am dangling after her much less.
My pen has no old wishes To spoil some useful flying leafs;
Some other, cool and cold dreams. Some other, more severe issues
In noise of world and in the still Disturb my soul’s quiet dream.
XLIV
I’ve heard some voice of new desire, I’ve got new sorrow anew;
By new one can’t I be admired I pity old one - it’s true.
You, dreams, my dreams, where is your pleasure And rhyme to it: my youth, my treasure ?
Can it be real that at last My youth had withered in the past?
Can it he real anyhow Without elegical deed
That spring of youth could quickly speed (As I could joke until now)?
And is it true, it can’t return?
And am I soon at thirties turn?
XLV
It means: my noon has come, its needed For me to realize, I see.
O’key, but let us part not frigid. Ah, youth my light! Ah, dear me!
I’m greatful for the good enjoyments, For sadness, for the pretty torments,
For noise, for storms, for many feasts, For everything! For all your gifts
To you I’m greatful!
You alone Among anxieties in still
Could me enjoy... I’ve had my fill; It is enough!
With clear soul
New way I’m starting, do my best From all past life to take a rest.
XLVI
Let me look back.
Forgive me thickets In which my days have passed away,
Were lilted with passions, lazy fidgets, With dreams of thoughtful soul’s haze.
And you, my youthful inspiration, Disturb my weak imagination,
You make my sleepy heart revive, To my good nook more often dive.
You don’t let be cooled my soul, Become embittered, hardened, dry,
At last like dead to petrify In deadly thrill of world on whole;
In this a dirty pool with you, My friends, I have a bath like you.
CHAPTER SEVEN
You are, my Moscow, beloved of Russia daughter, and where can we find some other of the kind..
Dmitriyev.
How would you not love Moscow?
Baratynsky.
The drive to Moscow! It means the world to see!
Where is it better?
Where we have never been.
Griboyedov
I
By vernal rays all driven now From hills the snows, turned to mud,
By turbid brooks have run all down To meadows, all under flood.
By clear smile the nature’s fitting Through dream the year’s morning meeting