To Gnedich poem – Alexander Pushkin

A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation

With Homer you conversed alone for days and nights,

Our waiting hours were passing slowly,

And shining you came down from the mysterious heights

And brought to us your tablets holy –

So? in the wilderness, beneath a tent, you found

Us, feasting mad in empty gaiety,

Singing our savage songs and galloping around

Some newly hand-created deity.

We grew confused, aloof from your good rays hid we.

Then, seized of wrath and desolation,

Have you, O prophet, cursed your mindless family And smashed your tablets in frustration?

No, you have cursed us not. From heights you disappear

Into the shade of little valleys;

You love the heavens’ crash, but also wish to hear

Bees humming over red azaleas.

Such is the honest bard. With passion he laments

At solemn fairs of Melpomena –

To smile upon the crowd’s plebeian merriments,

The liberties of coarse arena.

Now Rome is calling him, now majesties of Troy,

Now elder Ossian’s craggy gravels –

And in the meantime he will hear with childish joy

Of Czar Sultan’s heroic travels.

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• Spain 1873–’74. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• Song for All Seas, All Ships. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Song at Sunset. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sometimes with One I Love. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Solid, Ironical, Rolling Orb. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
• Sobbing of The Bells, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• So Far and So Far, and on Toward the End. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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• Ship Starting, The. by Walt Whitman by Walt Whitman
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