While poet isn't so required,
For sacred sacrifice of Art,
In hustle of the world he's tired, faintheartedly immersed his heart.
His holy lyre is dull and silent,
His soul is longing, sad and cold,
Among the miserable children,
He is the worst in whole wide world.
But when he hears the sacred voice,
That pierce his mind without the bowsing,
The poet's soul is now arousing,
Like waken eagle in the sky.
He's gloomy with the world's amusements,
He shuns, he's sick of rumors's spread,
And to the feet of public idol,
he won't incline his prideful head.
He runs: he's wild and he is cruel,
Turmoil of dismay in his mind,
On shores of desert waves his pride,
In the vociferous oak forests...
The Poet A. S. Pushkin
© Copyright: Анна Индевельская, 2026
Свидетельство о публикации №126052806400
Свидетельство о публикации №126052806400
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