В тревоге пестрой... - пер. А. С. Пушкина

In a trouble motley and unuseful
Of the high society and court
I've kept the cold eye, the pure
And modest heart, the freedom
Of mind, the fire of a truth so noble,
And I was as a child kind;
I've smiled at a crowd foolish,
I've judged it fairly by sense,
And I've written jokes malicious
On clean white paper with black pen.