With ranks of books his shelf fulfilling, For long he eagerly was reading,
But saw: annui, the rave, the harm, The fraud; nor shame, nor sense, nor charm;
In all of them restriction’s queer; Antiquity the old backs.
The novelty with ages smacks.
Like women, books were all left here,
And shelf with dusty books anew With mourning taffeta he drew.
XLV
Of world conventions breaking load Like he I lagged behind of fuss,
I was his friend some while ago.
I liked his features in the past:
Devotion to dreams unwitting, Unimitated strange unfitting,
His sharp, but somewhat cooling wit.
I was embittered, he… unfit.
We knew the game of passion’s oath; By life were anguished as a rule;
The heat of hearts became all cool; Besides we were awaited both
By spite of fortune and of mean, While both were beginners then.
XLVI
Who has ideas and is living, He looks at people with disdain,
He has a trouble from the feeling Of spook of unreturning day.
He hasn’t any fascinations, But has some snake of recollections,
And him repentance badly nags; This inspiration often adds
Great charm to any conversation.
At first his language me confused,
But in a while I had been used To caustic, hot argumentation,
To jokes mixtured with the bile, To epigrams with no smile.
XLVI1
And often in the summer’s sphere, When clear is the sky at night
All over the Neva river, When waters, being gaily light,
Do not reflect Diana’s features, Recalling bygone novel’s creatures,
Recalling former love, such free, Perceptible and carefree,
By night’s benevolent light breathing We mutely reveled and could fail!
Like convict in the stocks from jail If brought to forests while he’s sleeping,
We all were taken by the dreams, As if young life anew begins.
XLVIII
With utterly regretful soul, On granit leaning, straight. upright,
Stood Eugene, thoughtful, quite alone, As poet himself described.
Night sentries, far from one to other, In stillness called each one another;
Of droshky light, remote noise From Million street was heard.
Some boys In boat with its oars rowed Along the sleepy Neva’s stream,
And we adored, like in a dream, Some song of horn and man, such bold...
More sweet, than joys beneath the moon, Will stay of Torkwat’s octaves tune!
XLIX
Oh, Brenta! I again shall see you. My dear Adriatic waves,
Inspired, I again shall feel you, Your magic voice for me awaits!
Appolo’s children took it sacred; For Albion proud lyre rated
I love him, he’s my kin in-law.
Italian nights I shall adore.
And being free, again revel In girl from Venece, pretty, young,
Sometimes she’s talkative or dumb, In secret gondola I’ll travel
With her, my lips will find anew Petrarka’s language ‘I love you’ .