Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was a Russian author of the Romantic era who is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet and the founder of modern Russian literature.
According to Vladimir Nabokov,
"Pushkin's idiom combined all the contemporaneous elements of Russian with all he had learned from Derzhavin, Zhukovsky, Batyushkov, Karamzin, and Krylov; these elements are: 1. The poetical and metaphysical strain that still lived in Church Slavonic forms and locutions; 2. Abundant and natural gallicisms; 3. The everyday colloquialisms of his set; and 4. Stylized popular speech. He made a salad of the famous three styles (low, medium elevation, high) dear to the ... more »
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Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin Poems
I Loved You
I loved you, and I probably still do, And for a while the feeling may remain... But let my love no longer trouble you, I do not wish to cause you any pain.
What's friendship? The hangover's faction, The gratis talk of outrage, Exchange by vanity, inaction,
A Magic Moment I Remember
A magic moment I remember: I raised my eyes and you were there, A fleeting vision, the quintessence
A Little Bird
In alien lands I keep the body Of ancient native rites and things: I gladly free a little birdie At celebration of the spring.
Longing for spiritual springs, I dragged myself through desert sands ... An angel with three pairs of wings Arrived to me at cross of lands;
I remember the marvellous moment you appeared before me, like a transient vision, like pure beauty’s spirit.
Don’t Ask Me Why
Don’t ask me why, alone in dismal thought, In times of mirth, I’m often filled with strife, And why my weary stare is so distraught,
Not long ago, in a charming dream, I saw myself - a king with crown's treasure; I was in love with you, it seemed, And heart was beating with a pleasure.
What doesn't enter then my slumbering mind? -Derzhavin I October has arrived - the woods have tossed
Bound for your distant home
Bound for your distant home you were leaving alien lands. In an hour as sad as I’ve known I wept over your hands.
I saw the Death, and she was seating By quiet entrance at my own home, I saw the doors were opened in my tomb, And there, and there my hope was a-flitting
I love Thee
I loved thee; and perchance until this moment Within my breast is smouldering still the fire! Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,
I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation; And I am silent; my murmur is dead, My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade, Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
Where the sea forever dances Over lonely cliff and dune, Where sweet twilight's vapor glances In a warmer-glowing moon,
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
I Loved You
I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain...
But let my love no longer trouble you,
I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew,
The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain -
Made up a love so tender and so true
As may God grant you to be loved again.
Translated by Genia Gurarie, 11/10/95