Aleksandr Pushkin

‘Tis bliss for him, friends of my life,
Who’s not ill with a silly passion,
Who has not time to fall in love, 
Who’s all in all and satisfaction,
His sadness never can him find,
His funs are really the endless,
He wrought a harem in his mind,
And there enjoys it without cares.


Translated by Yevgeny Bonver, November 11, 2003