Текст песни АЛЕКСАНДР СЕРГЕЕВИЧ ПУШКИН - Разговор книгопродавца с поэтом

Bookseller

Poems for you a fun,
A little bit once you sit down,
Already managed to disclose the glory
 Everywhere pleasant news:
The poem says ready
The fruit of the new mental ploys.
So, decide; I'm waiting for a word:
Give yourself the price of her.
Poems favorite muses and Graces
 We instantly replace rubles
 And a bunch of cash bills
 Leaflets your turn.
What sighed so deeply,
L You can not find?

Poet

I was away:
I'm mindful of the time,
When hopes of a rich,
Poet careless, I wrote
 From inspiration not from the board.
I saw again the cliffs shelters
 And the dark shelter of solitude,
Where am I on the feast of the imagination,
Sometimes she called Muse.
There my voice sounded sweeter;
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They share a bright vision,
With inexplicable beauty,
Hovered, flew over me
 In the hours of the night inspiration.
All care gentle mind:
Flowering meadow, the brightness of the moon,
In the chapel dilapidated storm noise,
Old women wonderful devotion.
What demon possessed
 My games leisure;
For me, he was flying everywhere,
I whispered sounds wonderful,
And heavy, fiery disease
 My head was full;
In her wonderful dreams were born;
The slim size flocked
 My obedient words
 And voiced rhyme closed.
The harmony of my opponent
 There was noise forest il violent whirlwind,
Ile Orioles tune alive,
Or at night the sea roar deaf
Or the whisper of the river tihostruynoy.
Then, in the silence of the works,
Share I was not ready
 With a crowd of fiery enthusiasm
 And the sweet gifts of the Muse
 Do not humiliate shameful bargaining;
I was the keeper of a mean:
Yes, pride dumb
From the eyes of the hypocritical mob
 Gifts mistress Mlada
 Stores lover superstitious.

Bookseller

But thank you replaced
 My dreams of a secret consolation:
You went to the runes,
Meanwhile, as the dusty bulk
 Stale prose and poetry
 Currently waiting in vain readers
 And windy it awards.
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Poet

Blessed is he who himself harbored
 Creating higher Soul
 And from the people as from the graves,
Not waiting for a sense of retribution!
Blessed is he who was the poet in silence
 And thorns glory is not twined,
Contempt ink forgotten
Unnamed left the light!
Deceptive and dreams of hope,
What is fame? whisper whether the reader?
Gonen l Low ignorant?
Or delight fool?

Bookseller

Lord Byron was of the same opinion;
Zhukovsky said the same;
But the light has learned and snatched
 They are the sweet creations.
Indeed, I envy your lot:
Poet penalty, the poet crowned;
Villains eternal thunder booms
 The offspring far strikes;
Heroes comforting it;
Corinne kifersky on the throne
 His mistress lifts.
Praise to you tiresome ringing;
But the heart of women's glory asks:
To write them; their ears
 Pleasant flattery Anacreon:
Summer rose in Mlada us
 Expensive laurels Helicon.

Poet

Proud dreams
Solace youth crazy!
And I, amid the noisy storms of life,
I seek attention beauty
Eyes pretty reading
 Me with a smile of love;
The mouth of the magical whisper
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I sweet sounds of my ...
But enough! sacrificed their freedom
 Dreamer alone will not bring;
Let them boy sings
My dear darling of nature.
What am I to them? Now in the wilderness
 Silently my life rushes;
Stone lira true touches
 Their mild, windy soul;
Do not clean them in the imagination:
They do not understand us,
And a sign of God's inspiration
 For them, and alien and ridiculous.
When I recall unwittingly
 Come inspired in them a verse,
I still break out, his heart hurt:
I am ashamed of my idols.
Why, miserable, I wanted?
Before anyone humiliated the proud mind?
Who delight of pure thoughts
 Idolized not ashamed?

Bookseller

I love your anger. This is a poet!
Reasons for your grief
 I can not know; but exceptions
 For lovely ladies Shall not?
Shall none worth
 No inspiration, no passions
 And your songs are not assigned
 The beauty of its all-powerful?
Shut up you?

Poet

Why poet
 Alarming heart heavy sleep?
Fruitless memory torments him.
And what? what business world?
I am a stranger to all. My soul
 Stores whether the unforgettable image?
Love bliss if I knew?
Tosca eh long exhausted,
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I conceal the tears in silence?
Where she was, whose eyes,
As the sky, smiled at me?
All life, whether one, two nights there?
........................
And what? Tiresome moan of love,
My words seem
 Madman wild babbling.
There one will understand their heart,
And with a sad shudder:
Fate so decided.
Ah, the thought of that soul zavyaloy
 Could revitalize youth
 And the dreams of poetry Experienced
 They gather again to anger!
It went without saying to one
 Poems my vague;
One would be in the heart blazed
 The lamps of pure love.
Alas, vain desires!
She rejected spells
Pleas, longing of my soul:
Earthly delights outpouring
As a deity, I do not need it.

Bookseller

So, tired of love,
Bored babble rumors,
You have refused to advance
 From your lyre inspired.
Now, leaving the noisy light
And the music, fashion and windy,
Well elect you?

Poet

Freedom.

Bookseller

Fine. That's the same advice to you.
Hear the truth helpful:
Our age - huckster; in this age of iron
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With no money and no freedom.
What is fame? - Bright Patch
 The Old rags singer.
We need to Zlata, Zlata, Zlata:
Accumulate gold to the end!
I foresee your objection;
But I know you, ladies and gentlemen:
You dearly your creation,
While working on the flame
 Boiling, seething imagination;
It will harden and then
 You fasted and writings.
Let me just tell you:
Not for Sale inspiration,
But you can sell a manuscript.
Well m