Iím ready to explode at any moment, Filled to the brim with uncreative ire. The Muse dropped by tonight - a happy omen - But then, a short while later, she retired. I honestly canít blame her for departing, I know she had good grounds to walk away: The Muse, at night, in some strange manís apartment! God knows what all the gossipers might say. Yet, I canít help but feel depressed and weakened, And, Iíll admit it, just a little piqued. At Blokís, I hear, she hung out every week-end, At Balmontís, she would stick around for weeks. Iíd hurried to my desk, for greatness famished - A stroke of genius I, for once, might nab! But when she left, my inspiration vanished, As did three roubles (maybe, for a cab?) I run from room to empty room, still shaking - Though Iíve forgiven her, Iím hopping mad. For greener pastures I have been forsaken; Perhaps, my hospitality was bad? The giant cake (from grief, no doubt) has crumbled; Myself, I am exhausted and confused. My no-good neighbors, in the meantime, stumbled Upon the rum Iíd meant to serve the Muse. So now Iím bored, as night turns into morning; I sorely miss that quirky Muse of mine. She took French leave of me, without a warning, But still, she gave me two amazing lines. These lines are proof no poet ranks above me, And wide acclaim is sure to come my way: "Thou art so very temperate and lovely. Shall I compare thee to a summerís day?"
1 In the original, the last two lines are (almost exactly) the first two lines of an extremely well-known poem by Pushkin.
© Serge Elnitsky. Translation, 2006