When, a dreamy world
In an effort to sublime soul,
You hold on your lap lyre
impatient hand;
When alternate vision
In front of you in a magical mist,
And a quick chill of inspiration
Vlasov lifts on the forehead, —
You're right, doest thou for a few,
Not envious of judges,
Not for the poor sbyrateley
Others' opinions and news,
But for friends of talent stringent,
Sacred truth friends.
Not all love happiness,
Not all were born to crowns.
beatific, who knows lust
Lofty thoughts and poems!
Who enjoy beautiful
The beautiful inherit
And your delight enlightened
Fiery enthusiasm and clear.
