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 ... more »
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Mikhail Lermontov Poems
Tops of dreaming highlands Darken in a night; Valleys lull, in silence, A fresh dim inside;
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;
Yes, I like you, my knife of damask pledge, My friend so bright and so cold, A thoughtful Georgian forged you for his revenge, A free Circassian then sharpened for a row.
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.
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.
It's Hell for us to draw the fetters Of life in alienation, stiff. All people prefer to share gladness, And nobody - to share grief.
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 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.
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.
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 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.
The Cross On The Rock
I know a rock in a highland's ravine, On which only eagles might ever be seen, But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns, It rots and it ages from tempests and rains.
Comments about Mikhail Lermontov
Tops of dreaming highlands
Darken in a night;
Valleys lull, in silence,
A fresh dim inside;
Dust sleeps on a road,
Leafage does not shake.
Wait a little more,
You'll too have a break.