Where is their haven at this hour? Quick: he grabs the dead man's hair,Drags his body to the water,Looks around: nobody's there:Good. Priests, guests were feasting without measure, And then they gravely dispersed, As if for next important phase. His prayer is that God grants another to love her. Let from my soul disappearThe separation's sharp rebuke! The child was spry, but very sweet. He passed away before his dinner, Deplor'd by his friend, living near, By his offspring and faithful wife Stronger than many, lost of life. Will see the Russian Terpsichore's High flight supported by the heart? Self-Portrait with Klobuk in drafts, 1829.
Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно, То робостью, то ревностью томим; Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно, Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим. Their talk, profound, without passions, About haying and good wines, About cousins, dogs and hunts, Of course, he didn't glisten with senses, Nor with good jokes, nor with mind, Nor with a flame of a high kind, Nor with the art of good attendance; And talks of their enchanting wives Were worse, and nearly not as wise. Every literature classroom — and many private apartments — had one of the two famous portraits of him by Tropinin and Kiprensky. He came from a well-educated intelligentsia family, but unlike many people of his class, decided to stay in Russian and remained loyal to his country. Я вас любил безмолвно, безнадежно, То робостью, то ревностью томим; Я вас любил так искренно, так нежно, Как дай вам бог любимой быть другим.
His ear, untrained and uninterested in music proper, is said to have had a unique instinct for combining, contrasting and exploiting the various vowel sounds and the extraordinary wealth of liquid, sibilant and guttural consonants that give the Russian language its beauty and variety, while he retained a simplicity and a naturalness of expression that often give his poetry and prose an almost conversational. All can be achievedBy that absorbing gaze, believe me. My sacred rights I'm passing to you with a bow. Another Translation by Babette Deutsch: I loved you; and perhaps I love you still, The flame, perhaps, is not extinguished; yet It burns so quietly within my soul, No longer should you feel distressed by it. Thus a slim seed, fallen in earth, Is made alive with flamed spring's breath.
Was he, amidst the feast and wealth, A man of negligence and health? Give me a pen, a sheet of paper, And move the table; I'll lie soon later; Forgive me! Lose very quickly passing evening,And, at your heedless joy and singing,I will be smiling through my tears. Pushkin was shot and killed in 1837 by his brother in-law whom he suspected of having an affair with his wife when he confronted him about it. Borodino by Mikhail Lermontov This 1837 poem takes its name from the battle of Borodino — one of the main battles of the 1812 war with Napoleon. Yes, his example - to us for learning, But, Heavens, how it is boring To sit with him all day and night, Not having right to step aside! He held his French in perfect fashion, Could write and speak it at a chance, Led smoothly a mazurka-dance, His bows were simple and well-stationed. Pushkin 1799 - 1837 , Russia.
I loved you without hope, a mute offender; What jealous pangs, what shy despairs I knew! Many of his works became foundational texts in their genres. He rejected the high-blown style of classic Russian poetry, breaking down the barrier between colloquial speech and the elevated odes of the past. Now the torch has finished burningIn the peasant's smoky room. Burning in flames of clear passions And great delight, a hero praised, Was always braced to sacrifice, And in the last chapter's procession, A sin was punished and diseased, And goodness - crowned with a wreath. What a deplorable deception To entertain the man, half-dead, To fix a pillow in his bed, To give him drugs with sad attention, To sigh and think in deeps of heart: When will the deuce take you apart? I feel like crying, sobbing crazily!. Rousseau - Just a little lesson! Poems by famous outstanding poet Vladimir Vysotsky, Russia: - Vladimir Vysotsky.
This last line gives the poem a true quality of love that it is not self seeking. By a blessed vigor of sensations Recalled to be alive, creations - Julia's lover - sweet Volmar, Malek-Adel and de Linar, And Werther-sufferer rebellious, And void of equals Grandison, Who tends us to a-sleeping, stone, - All, for she-dreamer our precious, United in the image, single: In single Onegin all were mingled. On the third day the zealous hermitWas sitting by the shore, in love,Awaiting the delightful mermaid,As shade was covering the grove. His father couldn't him understand, And used to mortgage all his land. Pray, be not pained believe me, of my choosing I'd never have.
And far away Before it, thriving, were far-laid Green meadows and fields of gold, Flashed villages; and by a chance, Herds roamed on the green of grass, And made dense canopy more broad The immense garden, grown old, The thoughtful dryads' cool abode. Koena France Mokoena Cell : +27710329734 E-mail: kfmproductions yahoo. Hopeless and tonguetied, yet I loved you dearly With pangs the jealous and the timid know; So tenderly I love you, so sincerely, I pray God grant another love you so. How often played I with his brass, Received for the Ochakov medal! I do not fathom all this; yet I made translation, very bad, - The living picture's copy breathless, Or famous 'Freeshot', when it's played By fingers of the bashful maid:. After what seemed to be a Russian victory, the Russian army was ordered to step back as Napoleon had large reserves on the way. Hey you brats, go have your motherBring my coat; I better trudge.
Kids asleep, the wife aslumber,He lies listening to the rain. When off the stairs your weightless footfall,Your dress's rustle, reaches me,Your voice, as maidenly, as youthful -I lose my senses instantly. He just wants to keep her in his heart for a while. Always there is the single dreaming, The single whish, that's ever-living, The single sadness, as a sense. None of these work for you? Written by In alien lands I keep the bodyOf ancient native rites and things:I gladly free a little birdieAt celebration of the spring. Still, these four lines skilfully sums up the sentiment of Russian people. Because next year, i am invited to an Indian ceremony to recite my poems to an Indian audience.
Pushkin and his wife Natalya Goncharova, whom he married in 1831, later became regulars of court society. Badly mangled, ugly, frightening,Blue and swollen on each side. Tatyana does not sleep in night, Speaks with her nanny of her plight. One of her feet touches the boards, Another - slow moves aside, But suddenly - a jump, a flight - A puff's flight in the air flows; She bends her body and unbends, And beats her leg her leg against. Written by I love you - though it makes me beat,Though vain it seems, and melancholy -Yet to this shameless, hapless follyI'll be confessing at your feet. He entertained with sweet illusions The doubts of his flaming heart; The goal of existence, hard, He thought a riddle and confusion: He racked his young brains over that, And marvels were his main suspect. But as she predicts, her works did find their way back, years after her tragic and abrupt death.