Here you will find the Poem No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet of poet Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov
No, I'm not Byron; I am, yet, Another choice for the sacred dole, Like him - a persecuted soul, But only of the Russian set. I early start and end the whole, And will not win the future days; Like in an ocean, in my soul, A cargo of lost hopes stays. Who, oh, my ocean severe, Could read all secrets in your scroll? Who'll tell the people my idea? I will or God or none at all! Another translation by Martha Gilbert Dickinson Bianchi: I AM NOT BYRON I am not Byron--yet I am One fore-elected, yet one more Unknown, world-hunted wanderer, A Russian in my mood and mind. Scant from my seed the corn was ripe, My mouth spoke young, was early hushed; In depths of my own soul, the wreck Of hope lies as in deep-sea sunk. Who shall the counsels of the sea, Its awe sublime unloose? Who shall Read clear my spirit and my soul? Unless it be a Poet--no man!
