Şi iar cuprins de trândăvie, Cu suflet gol şi răvăşit, Se-aşază lacom el să fie De minţi străine instruit. Înşiră cărţi pe etajere, Romane seci şi ef… - Alexander Pushkin

He who has lived and thought can't help
despising people in his soul;
him who has felt disturbs
the ghost of irrecoverable days;
for him there are no more enchantments;
him does the snake of memories,
him does repentance bite.

Our northern summers, though, are versions Of southern winters, this is clear; And though we’re loath to cast aspersions, They seem to go before they’re here! The sky breathed autumn, turned and darkled; The friendly sun less often sparkled; The days grew short and as they sped, The wood with mournful murmur shed Its wondrous veil to stand uncovered; The fields all lay in misty peace; The caravan of cackling geese Turned south; and all around there hovered The sombre season near at hand; November marched across the land.

Кого да любиш? Лицемери
са всички просто до един
и кой дела и думи мери
с избрания от нас аршин?
И кой от клевети ни пази
или ни пази от омрази?
Кому порокът наш е мил?
И кой не ни е досадил?
Не, призрак не гони неверен,
напразно сили не хаби,
а само себе си люби,
читателю благонамерен!
Предмет достоен: няма друг
за обич по-достоен тук!