When, world of dreams aspiring as aim
With a high-poetical and elevated soul,
You keep a lyre on your knees and handle
It with the impatient fingers so,
That dreams are coming in a row before eyes
In mists of tales, in the fairy of dark
And the momental cold of the spark
Of inspiration waves your hair's bundle, -
You're right, and you create for ones,
Who're not the lawers jealous, thus,
Not the collectors poor of the alien
Thoughts and the assessments, news,
But for the friends of the real talented,
Keen friends of the core of truth.
Not many people have the happiness,
Nor many ones feel weight of crown.
And blessed is that man, who remembers
The high-poetical sultry power!
Who got acknowledged with the beauty
And fetched it to his storage fair
And your elation understood, too,
As his delight so light and glaring.
1818
Жуковскому - перевод А. С. Пушкина
© Copyright: Людмила 31, 2014
Свидетельство о публикации №114070908300
Свидетельство о публикации №114070908300
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