Зима!.. Крестьянин, торжествуя, На дровнях обновляет путь; Его лошадка, снег почуя, Плетется рысью как-нибудь; Бразды пушистые взрывая, Летит кибитка… - Alexander Pushkin

Whom then to love? Whom to have faith in?
Who can there be who won’t betray?
Who’ll judge a deed or disputation
Obligingly by what we say?
Who’ll not bestrew our path with slander?
Who’ll cosset us with care and candour?
Oh, ineffectual phantom seeker
You waste your energy in vain:
Love your own self, be your own man,
My worthy, venerable reader!
A worthwhile object: surely who
Could be more lovable than you?

Always and everywhere one vision,
One customary, single mission,
One customary, single grief.
Not cooling distance’s relief...

I rode to meet you: dreams
like living beings swarmed around me
and the moon on my right side
followed me, burning.

I rode back: everything changed.
My soul in love was sad
and the moon on my left side
trailed me without hope.

To such endless impressions
we poets give ourselves absolutely,
making, in silence, omen of mere event,
until the world reflects the deepest needs of the soul.