Obscurity and Yevtushenko

Just reading a book written about 1700 called a History of Myddle, a village near us. I love the phraseology and these things could happen to any of us eg:
He died soon after he went to Shrewsbury, and as his life was extravagant so his end was strange, for as he sat in an alehouse cellar upon the stands that holds the barrels, and whilst another was drawing drink by him, he was taken with an apoplexy and fell down dead . . .
. . . This Richard Wycherley never married, and therefore he adopted Richard Wycherley (son of his brother Thomas Wycherley of Cockshutt) to be his heir, and put him to school to Mr Suger of Broughton, at what time I was a scholar there. He was very dull at learning, which caused Mr Suger to say very often he had no guts in his brains, but it seems he had gear in his breeches, for he got one of his uncle's servant maids with child, and thereupon his uncle sent him to London and bound him an apprentice there to a person that used some small trade about stuff and jerseys. Before his time was fully expired he married his maid .
The thought of all those lives lived in obscurity, but hey that does not mean obscurity is uninteresting. Yevteshenko wrote, (I'll have to translate from the Russian!).

No people are uninteresting.
Their fate is like the chronicle of planets

Nothing in them is not particular,
and planet is dissimilar from planet

And If a man live in obscurity
making his friends in that obscurity
Obscurity is not uninteresting.

To each his world is private,
and in that world one excellent minute.

And in that world one tragic minute.
These are private.

In any man who dies there dies with him
His first snow and first kiss and fight.
It goes with him.

They are left books and bridges
And painted canvas and machinery.

Whose fate it is to survive.
But what has gone is also not nothing:

By the rule of the game something has gone.
Not people die but worlds die in them.

Whom we knew as faulty, the earth’s creatures.
Of whom, essentially, what did we know?

Brother of a brother? Friend of friends?
Lover of lover?

We who knew our fathers
In everything, in nothing.

They perish. They cannot be brought back.
The secret worlds are not regenerated.

And time again and again
I make my lament against destruction.

Yevtushenko