Semyon Nadson

Semyon Nadson Poems

Semyon Nadson Biography

Semyon Yakovlevich Nadson (14 December 1862 – 19 January 1887) was a Russian Empire poet. Nadson's grandfather was a Jew who converted to the Greek Orthodox religion, his father was an official in St. Petersburg. His mother, Antonina Stepanovna Mamontova, was a Russian Orthodox, offspring of an old noble family. Despite publishing only one book of poems (he died of tuberculosis at age 24), Nadson enjoyed a significant success, although underrated by critics for long time. His Poem "Pora" ("It Is Time" in English), was set to music by Sergei Rachmaninoff (Op.14, No. 12). Some of his other poems were also incorporated into songs by Sergei Rachmaninoff, César Cui, etc.)

The Best Poem Of Semyon Nadson

Dreams

( In the first part of the poem, Nadson tells how in his boyhood he aspired to be the poet of beauty and to sing before great personages. Later he changed his mind. He continues: )

Henceforth I am the poet of labor, knowledge, grief—
No more in praise of beauty my hand the harp shall sweep.
I sing no song of conquest, no song of glorious deeds;
I suffer with the suffering, I weep with those who weep.

I give the weary one my hand. Though heavy be my cross,
Though storms and doubts, misfortune and struggle be my part,
Yet it has brought me also bright moments of delight,
Moments of high and holy joy that overflowed my heart.

One night I well remember: pale, like one who suffers much,
That night came down from heaven's blue height, pensive and lingering;
Came with the shy and coy caress of silver-shining May,
Game with the salutation of the mournful Northern Spring.

We opened all the windows wide; and, with the sound of wheels
Upon the echoing pavement, the night, with shadows murk,
Came to us, and was welcomed with heartiness and joy
Unto our modest festival, our cosy nook of work.

And even as it entered, and as throughout the room
Spread soft the fragrant perfume of blooming lilac sprays,
Silently following it, a band of mournful shadows came—
A throng of sounds that whispered from the depths of long-past days.

Those who had sought the capital from districts far away
Thought of their homes—the village poor, the church, the fields beyond;
Against their will it all came back—the plains, the village street,
The poplar standing motionless above the silent pond.

The garden they remembered, known from their cradle-time,
Where in the days of childhood, forever past, they played—
Where merrily the broken swing was wont to creak aloud,
And rippling laughter blithe was heard beneath the chequered shade;

The steep hill and the bower on it, the strips of golden wheat,
The path that like a serpent into the dark woods wound,
The peaceful light of dawn that shone beyond the slumberous stream —
And silence on our circle fell; we sat without a sound.

We all of us were longing to forget: for want and toil,
Privations sore and many cares had weighed upon us long;
And, with a gentle, soothing song of reconciling love,
I, even as in my youthful dreams, stepped forth before the throng.

Before me was no splendid hall, illumed with brilliant light,
Here in this room, so poor and small, sunk in half darkness now,
Where Thought alone was glittering in deathless beauty bright,
Wearing a crown of painful thorns upon her queenly brow.

My voice rang not that evening to amuse an idle throng
Of full-gorged earthly demi-gods; no! I was singing then,
Without expecting glory and without desiring praise,
As a brother unto brothers, unto tired and toil-worn men.

I sang to those who gathered around the flag of truth,
To those who, in their struggle, were suffering bitter pain.
I told them that their toiling hands should falter not, nor droop,
And their young union, newly formed, should not dissolve again.

I sang to them a glowing hymn, inspired and filled with hope;
I sang that truth was destined to be victor in the fight;
That, darkness could not evermore resist its radiance clear,
And that the future of our land would joyful be and bright.

And all that I had hidden and cherished in my heart,
Like to a precious treasure, through hard days, slow and long—
My highest aspirations, my best and noblest dreams,
I poured them all forth freely in the accents of that song.

I ceased. The song was followed by no thunders of applause,
No wreaths came dropping at my feet, a fragrant, flowery storm;
The guerdon of the singer is a moment's silence deep,
And, in the hush, a hand-clasp—a hand-clasp close and warm.

But-whence and wherefore are these tears? How proud and glad am I!
My country, oh, accept me! Henceforward I am thine.
The gorgeous dreams of childhood pale, the
phantom roses fade, Before the joy that now in true reality is mine!

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