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Conversation of a bookseller with a poet
He’s blessed, who in his sole saved
Its most beautiful creations,
And from the people, as from graves,
For sense, didn’t wait their commendations!
He’s blessed who, silent, was a bard
And did not wear thorny crown,
Forgotten with despiteful crowd,
Who, nameless, left this dole, hard.
More furtive than the heart’s illusion,
What’s fame? The reader’s feeble voice?
Unletter’d scoundrels’ prosecution?
Or the delighted blockheads’ noise?
- Alexsander Pushkin
© Berry
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