Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet, later changed his name to Shenshin was a Russian poet regarded as one of the finest lyricists in Russian literature.
The circumstances of Afanasy Fet's birth have been the subject of controversy, and some uncertainties still remain. Even the exact date is unknown and has been cited as either October 29 (old style), or November 23 or 29, 1820.
Brief biographies usually maintain that Fet was the son of the Russian landlord Shenshin and a German woman named Charlotta Becker, an that at the age of 14 he had to change his surname from his father's to that of Fet, because the marriage of Shenshin and Becker, ... more »
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Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet Poems
I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid.-With effort I reach my hands out and I call For help. Yes, I recall the tortures Of dying.-Yes, this is no dream!-
I Have Come To You Delighted
I have come to you, delighted, To tell you that sun has risen, That its light has warmly started To fulfil on leaves its dancing;
Nightingales, A Sigh, A Whisper
Nightingales, a sigh, a whisper In a shady nook And the lullaby in silver Of a lazy brook.
When You Were Reading Those Tormented Li...
When you were reading those tormented lines In which the heart's resonant flame sends out glowing streams And passion's fatal torrents rear up,- Didn't you recall a single thing?
The September Rose
To sighs of morning air, that froze,- (With her lips opened for a say), How curiously has smiled the rose On a September fleeting day!
With One Firm Thrust
With one firm thrust to force the boat of living From off the sands, and, by a wave tossed high, Be toward a new life borne, a new beginning, To feel the wind from scented shores sweep nigh,
By Life Tormented
By life tormented, and by cunning hope, When my soul surrenders in its battle with them, Day and night I press my eyelids closed And sometimes I'm vouchsafed peculiar visions.
While Lounging In A Chair
While lounging in a chair, I looked up at the ceiling Where, teasing my imagination, A circle hangs above the quiet lamp, And spins just like a ghostly shadow.
Upon A Haystack On A Southern Night
Upon a haystack in lands of South, I lay, while facing skies of night, The choir of stars, alive and couth, Was trembling, spread at every side.
I Always Like The Northern Birches
I always s like the northern birches: Their view, so downcast and grave, The fever, which poor souls scorches, Cools like the mute speech of a grave.
What Grief! The Alley's End
What grief! The alley's end Is lost in snow again today, And once again, the silver snakes Are crawling through the snow
My Face Turned Upwards To The Sky
My face turned upwards to the sky One summer night I lay upon some hay A lively close-knit starry chorus Was flickering all around.
Comments about Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet
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I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid.-With effort
I reach my hands out and I call
For help. Yes, I recall the tortures
Of dying.-Yes, this is no dream!-
And without effort, like a spider web
I push aside my casket's rotting wood
And stand. How bright the winter light appears
In the crypt's doorway! Can I doubt it?-
I see the snow. The crypt's without a door.
It's time to head for home. How stunned they'll be!
I know this park, I cannot lose my way.
But oh how different it looks now!
I hurry. Snowdrifts. Frigid boughs
Of dead trees poke deep into the ...