Epistle to Galich

Where are you, my sloth?
lover delight!
Can it be true solitude
Not nice you rest?
Shall I come with you
Only using paper
Having your minutes
And do not see
Parnassian tramp?
Pinda on my neighbor,
And you hid from Moose,
minute homebody,
With penatami prostilsya!
Too dark corner
And the garden emptied,
Where are we at evening
For ryumkami noisy;
Where we were treated to Kom
trout, pies,
And frothy glass
We filed Bacchus.
Run for days days
Without friendly meetings;
merry feasting
cheerful children
Are you separated;
And noisy conversation,
And many lunches
Not as animated.
One in a closet close
evening stillness
Want, sage amiable,
Talk to you.
Already dark night embraces
Brega calm waters;
Murlıça, in the cell is dormant
uppity, old cat.
Meanwhile dream lovely,
Under the shadow of the quiet Creel,
In an obscure monastery
I was not put to sleep,
Morpheus in standby,
I lie in bed
And a cursory MESSAGE
Without the efforts of strict
traitor writing.
Far he stanitsы,
Where Febovy sister
I weave with languor leisure,
Tell me - among the capital
What are you doing, my friend?
Can it be true refuge of the poet
Now, among the light vortex,
Away native fields
and the Middle, and friends?
Can it be true in the theater noisy,
Where hefty Apollo
Parterom poluumnыm
Proslavlen, deaf,
Exhausted melody
nonsensical poems,
You sleep under a terrible roar
Actors and bows?
Or, sage court,
With a smile of feigned
Previous tape color
hanging his head,
With turntables blind
wish to get acquainted?
Ile Croesus at the table
The custom-verse
cowardly dignify?..
Not, my good Galich!
You do not bow Sroda.
Direct wisdom to each
Upright and noble;
He loves the silence;
The fate of his obedient,
At the master's coffers
looks indifferently,
rubles tax farmer
Laughing merry hour,
Do not remove the cap
Philosopher before Midasom.
Let it not friendly
With Fortuna insidious,
But Bacchus awarded
Philosopher grateful,
When this God Mlada
Lafite and grog amber
With a smile on his lips
In the glass it brings
And a drop to drink requests
Swaying on his feet.
dreams embracing,
His love is,
And the friendship young
Wreaths he weaves.
And he is happy, admit,
In practice, not in dreams,
When the minute rush
Fun on the wings;
When fellow poets
From morning to night with him
noisy, sung couplets,
Drink Moselle heated,
Priyatelyam svoim
epistle reading
And tube Kindle
Bezrifminym dashing!..

Leave the boring city,
With friends Sedin
And inseparable from them
In the desert, getting on.
run, run capital,
About my Galich, here!
Here pink morning:
Not seeing ever,
Lenyas under a blanket,
With Tiburskim sage
We often over a glass
We wake up - and go to sleep.
Look: thy wages
our Delvig, our poet,
He carries his ballad,
And stanzas grapes,
And lilies verse.
And it becomes full
your small, close house
Here with a pretty wit
Our peselnik drags
The stairs to the buzzer,
And upon her to you -
Again, every day
poetry, prozoy become
We drive sadness shadow.
young girlfriend
We will visit;
We are the golden days of life
Not terrible waste.
Share with fun
We have the rest of the century,
With sorceress-glory
And with the young Bacchus.

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Alexander Pushkin
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