Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev
Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev is generally considered the last of three great Romantic poets of Russia, following Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin and Mikhail Lermontov
Tyutchev was born into an old noble family in Ovstug near Bryansk. Most of his childhood years were spent in Moscow, where he joined the literary circle of Professor Merzlyakov at the age of 13. His first printed work was a translation of Horace's epistle to Maecenas, published when he was still 15. From that time on, his poetic language was distinguished from that of Pushkin and other contemporaries by its liberal use of majestic, solemn Slavonic archaisms.
His family tutor was Semyon Raich, a ... more »
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Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev Poems
Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal the way you dream, the things you feel. Deep in your spirit let them rise akin to stars in crystal skies
There is an hour at night full of an awesome wonder, When universal silence o'er the whole world lies And when the cosmic chariot rolls, wakening no thunder, Into the sanctuary of the skies.
There is a wistful charm, a tenderness, Mysterious and soft, in autumn's even: The trees in weird and brilliant garments dress, The gory leaves to whispered talk are given;
All Day She Quiet Lay
All day she quiet lay, lost in a trance, The closing shadows all of her embracing... The madcap rain of summer frisked and pranced, At leaves it drummed, down garden paths went racing.
As In The Globe Embraced By Ocean
As is the globe embraced by ocean, so Embraced is earthly life by dreams and fancies. Night comes unsought, and at the shore's defences The breakers strike blow after blow.
My Love For You, Sweet Earth
My love for you, sweet Earth, my mother, I cannot hide - I do not crave The phantom pleasures of that other, That spectral world beyond the grave.
Elysium Of Shades
Elysium of shades this soul of mine, Shades silent, luminous, and wholly severed From this tempestuous age, these restless times, Their joys and griefs, their aims and their endeavours.
Say Not He Loves Me
Say not he loves me as before, as truly, dearly As once he did... Oh no! My life He would destroy, he does destroy - though see I clearly The trembling of the hand that holds the knife.
How Tuneful Is The Voice Of Sea
How tuneful is the voice of sea, What true accord in ocean's murmur, And in the reed's light, rhythmic tremour What tender musicality!
O, how in our waning days We love more tenderly and more obsessively. . . Shine on, shine on, the parting rays
Reproach Me Not
Reproach me not e'en if I earn your indignation; Know: of us two you are to be more envied far. Unlike my love for you, yours is sincere, unmarred By jealousy's mistrust, its rancour and vexation.
In ocean waves there's melody...
In ocean waves there's melody There's harmony within the clash of elements,
I Love The Tsarskoselsky Gardens
I love the Tsarskoselsky Gardens Late in the fall when, in soft haze Enfolded, as in sleep's embrace They lie... The cold's breath slowly hardens,
Gum Is The Sky
Glum is the sky, by night imprisoned, As over it the dark clouds creep, Not menacing or wistful is it, But plunged in dreary, torpid sleep.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
Speak not, lie hidden, and conceal
the way you dream, the things you feel.
Deep in your spirit let them rise
akin to stars in crystal skies
that set before the night is blurred:
delight in them and speak no word.
How can a heart expression find?
How should another know your mind?
Will he discern what quickens you?
A thought once uttered is untrue.
Dimmed is the fountainhead when stirred:
drink at the source and speak no word.
Live in your inner self alone
within your soul a world has grown,
the magic of veiled thoughts that might
be blinded by the ...