Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok

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

Aleksandr Aleksandrovich Blok Poems

1. The Twelve 1/1/2004
2. A Girl Sang A Song 1/1/2004
3. Don'T Fear Death 1/1/2004
4. I Wait For You... 1/1/2004
5. I Prefer The Gorgeous Freedom 1/1/2004
6. The Stranger 1/1/2004
7. To The Muse 1/1/2004
8. Gamajun, The Prophetic Bird 1/1/2004
9. He, Who Was Born 1/1/2004
10. The Faithless Shadows. 1/1/2004
11. On The Field Of Kulicovo 1/1/2004
12. The Death Of Grandfather 1/1/2004
13. Halls Grew Darker 1/1/2004
14. Servus -- Reginae 1/1/2004
15. The Scythians 4/15/2010
16. Unknown Woman 4/15/2010
17. Snow Maiden 4/15/2010
18. Street Circus 4/15/2010
19. The Snowy Spring Is Raging Mad 4/15/2010
20. Those Born In Obscure Times 4/15/2010
21. From The Twelve 4/15/2010
22. I Apprehend You... 4/15/2010
23. Night, Streets, The Lantern 11/20/2013
24. Do You Remember? 11/20/2013
25. This Night On Track 11/25/2013
26. The Artist 11/20/2013
27. Into Crimson Dark 11/20/2013
28. All Perished, All! 11/20/2013
29. Why, Why Forever 11/25/2013
30. Spring Breaks In Rivers 11/25/2013
31. All On The Earth 11/20/2013
32. And I Shall Watch 11/20/2013
33. The Earthly Heart 11/20/2013
34. I Seek Salvation 11/20/2013
35. I Slow Was Losing 11/20/2013
36. There'Re The Moments 11/25/2013
37. I Know, There's My Death 11/20/2013
38. My Monastery, Where 11/20/2013
39. My Sweet Friend 11/20/2013
40. In The Sea Of High Grass 11/20/2013
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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