Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov October 15 1814 – July 27 1841), a Russian Romantic writer, poet and painter, sometimes called "the poet of the Caucasus", became the most important Russian poet after Alexander Pushkin's death in 1837. Lermontov is considered the supreme poet of Russian literature alongside Pushkin and the greatest figure in Russian Romanticism. His influence on later Russian literature is still felt in modern times, not only through his poetry, but also through his prose, which founded the tradition of the Russian psychological novel.
Lermontov was born in Moscow into a respectable noble family of the Tula guberniya, and grew up on the Tarkhany estate in the... more »
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Mikhail Lermontov Poems
I love my land, but with a queer passion, My mind isn't able to absorb it, yet! Nor glory, purchased by the bloody actions, Nor peace, in proud confidence inlaid,
The First Of January
When I often stay a motley crowd in, When before my eyes, as in an awful dream, To humming orchestras and dances, And foolish whispering of speeches learnt by eart,
The Grave Of Ossian
In my beloved Scottish highlands, Under a curtain of cold mists, Between the sky of storms and dry sands, The grave of Ossian exists.
For all, for all! I thank you, o my dear: For passions' deeply hidden pledge, For poison of a kiss, and stinging of a tear, Abuse by friends, and enemies' revenge;
Tops of dreaming highlands Darken in a night; Valleys lull, in silence, A fresh dim inside;
The angel was flying through sky in midnight, And softly he sang in his flight; And clouds, and stars, and the moon in a throng Hearkened to that holy song.
Don't Trust In Self...
Don't trust in self, my dreamer young, don't trust, Beware, like ulcers, inspiration… It is the heavy fit of your unhealthy heart, Or jailed ideas' irritation.
The Captive Knight
By a loophole, I sit in my prison, Could see the blue of the heaven from there, I feel sharp pain and a shame at the vision Of heedless birds, freely playing in air.
My heart is in a gloom. Be fast, Oh bard, be fast! There is a harp of gold: And let your fingers, that on strings are cast, Wake sounds of the God's Abode.
The glen of Daghestan, at noon, was hot and gleaming; I lay on sand with lead sent to my heart, My deadly wound was deep and easily steaming; And, drop by drop, was oozing out blood.
By gates of an abode, blessed, A man stood, asking for donation, A beggar, cruelly oppressed By hunger, thirst and deprivation.
I Come Out To the Path...
I come out to the path, alone, Night and wildness are referred to God, Through the mist, the road gleams with stone, Stars are speaking in the shinning lot.
Forever You, The Unwashed Russia!
Forever you, the unwashed Russia! The land of slaves the land of lords: And you, the blue-uniformed ushers, And people who worship them as gods.
Death Of the Poet
The Bard is killed! The honor's striver Fell, slandered by a gossip's dread, With lead in breast and vengeful fire, Drooped with his ever-proud head.
Comments about Mikhail Lermontov
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I love my land, but with a queer passion,
My mind isn't able to absorb it, yet!
Nor glory, purchased by the bloody actions,
Nor peace, in proud confidence inlaid,
Nor sacred sagas of the days of yore
Will stir my pleasant fancies any more.
But I do love - and I don't know why -
Her endless plains' indifference and silence,
Her endless forests' ever swaying wildness,
Her rivers' floods which, like the sea, are wide.
I love to gallop in a cart on roads,
And peering slowly through darkness of the nights,
And idly dreaming of the night abodes,
To meet the ...