To the poet friend

Arist! and you're in a crowd Parnassus servants!
You want to ride a stubborn Pegasus;
For laurels hurry Danger paths,
And with severe criticism to enter boldly into battle!

Arist, believe you me, leave a pen, Ink,
forget streams, the woods, sad grave,
The cold's songs of love does not glow;
So as not to fly off the mountain, go down quickly!
Quite without you there would be poets;
Print them - and the whole world will forget.
Perhaps now, Remove from noise
And stupid muzoyu forever connected,
Under the shadow of the Peace Minervino Aegis

Father hid the other two "Telemahida".
Scarecrow fate meaningless singers,
We kill the colossus of poetry!
Later descendants tribute Therefore, we have;
Pinda on laurels has, but it is there and nettle.
dismayed besslavyya! - What, estli Apollo,
Hearing, that you climbed up on Helicon,
Contemptuously shaking head curly,
Your genius award - saving vine?

But what? you frowning and ready to respond;
“Perhaps, - tell me, - do not waste unnecessary words;
When that dare, so I do not back down,
And know, my lot fell, I lira is elected.
Let me judge, as he wants, a light,
be angry, screams, BRANIŠA, - and I'm still a poet”.

Arist, not the poet, who knows how to weave rhymes
AND, feathers skrypya, Paper does not regret.
Good poetry is not so easy to write,
As Vitgenshteinu French win.
Meanwhile, Dmitri, Derzhavin, Lomonosov.
singers immortal, and honor, and the glory of Russia,
Nourish a sound mind and together teach us,
How many books are killed, born almost rodyas!
Creations loud Rifmatova, Grafova
With a heavy Bibrusom rot Glazunov;
No one will remember them, will not read nonsense,
And Febova them curse seal.

put, what, on Pind vzobravshisya happily,
Poet can you be called a true:
All with pleasure while you read.
But whether mnish, that to you already flowing river
for this, that you are a poet, untold wealth,
What do you have to take the mercy of the state,
In an iron chest burying gold coins
AND, lying on its side, calmly eating and sleeping?
Not so, dear friend, writers are rich;
Fate they were not given any Marble Chamber,
Neither pure gold full of chests:
Hovel underground, high loft -
Here they are magnificent palaces, great hall.
Poets - all praise, feed - only magazines;
Rolling past their wheel of fortune;
Born naked and naked walks in the coffin Rousseau;
Camoes beggars shared your bed;
Fires in the attic untraceable dies,
Alien hands he committed the grave:
Their life is - a series of sorrows, gremyascha glory - a dream.

You, it seems, Now think a bit.
“But what, - say, - judging all so strict,
Going through all the, as a new Juvenal,
You talked about poetry with me;
And I am, quarreled with Parnasskii sisters,
I came here to preach verse?
What has happened to you? Whether you mind, Or Not?”
Arist, Without further words, Here is my answer to you:

In the village, I remember, with the laity simple,
The priest and the elderly with gray curls,
The world with its neighbors, in common, contentment lived
And the first sage all have long had a reputation.
once, draining bottles and glasses,
from a wedding, in evening, He was a little drunk;
Caught emu navstrechu men.
“Listen, father, - said prostyaky, —
Instruct us sinners - because you drink forbid
Be sober everyone always commanded,
And we believe you; But what today itself ...”
– “Listen, - the priest said to the peasants, —
As you teach in church, so you and act,
live well, and me - do not imitate”.

And I had to answer the same;
I do not want to justify themselves in the least:
Happy, Who, to poetry without feeling the hunt,
Spends a quiet century without grief, without care,
His odes magazines not tyagchit,
And over the impromptu week is not sitting!
He does not like to walk on the heights of Parnassus,
Not looking for a pure music, Pegasus us pыlkoho,
It with pen in hand is not afraid of the Ramak;
calm, he is hilarious, Arist, He - not the poet.

But full of talk - I fear you bored
And satirical pen you torture.
Now, dear friend, I gave you some advice,
whether flute leave, umolknesh, or not?..
Think about everything and choose any:
Be nice - good, calm - better half.

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Alexander Pushkin
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