When, by sorrow inspired, <br />The poet sings his own pine, <br />Whose soul will be cold and tired <br />To give not him the answer, fine? <br />Who, greedy for the old damnation, <br />Will dare to scoff at sadness, else? <br />But all are cold to execration, <br />The imitated cry's vexation, <br />Affected wailing is a jest! <br />The poet, stirring every soul, <br />Has reached the suffers' mysteries, <br />Without worm of somewhat boiling, <br />Complaisant labored musings' tricks. <br />In struggle with fate's severe pressure <br />He took the measure of high strengths, <br />And bought their rudiment expression <br />At the price of painful hearty cramps. <br />Therefore his image is encircled <br />By rays of the unfading light, <br />And, like a martyr, he is honored <br />By people of the different kind. <br />But your Muse, so meretricious, <br />Which dreams to raise emphatic wishes <br />In humane hearts by loaned pine, <br />Is like a beggar outrageous, <br />Who begs for contributions gracious, <br />Keeping a child, who isn't her one.<br /><br />Yevgeny Abramovich Baratynsky<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-imitators/
