Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

(28 November 1880 – 7 August 1921 / Saint Petersburg)

Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok Poems

1. Do Neglect All Your Dear Creations 11/20/2013
2. Do Not Entrust 11/20/2013
3. A Flame's In Skies 11/20/2013
4. Flaming Signs Of The Mystery 11/20/2013
5. Grass Was Pushing Through 11/20/2013
6. Here We Live 11/20/2013
7. I'M Hamlet Now 11/20/2013
8. It's Lifted Up 11/20/2013
9. I'Ve To Return 11/20/2013
10. In The Sea Of High Grass 11/20/2013
11. The Ophelia's Song 11/20/2013
12. So Melodiously And Airily 11/25/2013
13. There's A Morn Demon 11/25/2013
14. You'Re Gone Away 11/25/2013
15. The Earthly Heart 11/20/2013
16. I Seek Salvation 11/20/2013
17. I Slow Was Losing 11/20/2013
18. My Monastery, Where 11/20/2013
19. My Sweet Friend 11/20/2013
20. I Know, There's My Death 11/20/2013
21. And I Shall Watch 11/20/2013
22. All On The Earth 11/20/2013
23. Spring Breaks In Rivers 11/25/2013
24. Why, Why Forever 11/25/2013
25. All Perished, All! 11/20/2013
26. Into Crimson Dark 11/20/2013
27. The Artist 11/20/2013
28. There'Re The Moments 11/25/2013
29. This Night On Track 11/25/2013
30. Do You Remember? 11/20/2013
31. Night, Streets, The Lantern 11/20/2013
32. I Apprehend You... 4/15/2010
33. From The Twelve 4/15/2010
34. The Snowy Spring Is Raging Mad 4/15/2010
35. Those Born In Obscure Times 4/15/2010
36. Street Circus 4/15/2010
37. Snow Maiden 4/15/2010
38. Unknown Woman 4/15/2010
39. The Scythians 4/15/2010
40. Servus -- Reginae 1/1/2004
Best Poem of Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

The Twelve

III
Our sons have gone
to serve the Reds
to serve the Reds
to risk their heads!

O bitter,bitter pain,
Sweet living!
A torn overcoat
an Austrian gun!

-To get the bourgeosie
We'll start a fire
a worldwide fire, and drench it
in blood-
The good Lord bless us!


-O you bitter bitterness,
boring boredom,
deadly boredom.

This is how I will
spend my time.

This is how I will
scratch my head,

munch on seeds,
some sunflower seeds,

play with my knife
play with ...

Read the full of The Twelve

On The Field Of Kulicovo

The river stretched. It flows, idly grieves,
And washes both banks.
In steppe, above light clay of cliffs
Rinks mourn in ranks.

O Russia! Dear wife! With clearness and pain
We see the lengthy way!
It sent an arrow of ancient Tartar reign -
In breast it lay.

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