|
Alexander Pushkin
Flowers the last in mile
Magnificent first-borns of fields.
They sad Dreams
More quickly waken in us.
So sometimes separations hour
More quickly sweet love meeting.
Drops a wood the crimson cap ON OCTOBER, 19TH
Drops a wood the crimson cap,
Covers with silver a frost a withered field,
Will appear day as though necessarily
Also will disappear for edge of district mountains.
Flare, a fireplace, in my deserted to room;
And you, wine, an autumn icy cold the friend,
Spill to me in a breast a pleasant hang-over,
Minute dream bitter flours.
I am sad: with me the friend is not present,
With whom long I would wash down separation,
With whom could shake hands from heart
And to wish cheerful many years.
I drink one; in vain Imaginations
Around of me comrades calls;
Familiar it is not audible approach,
And for a lovely shower washing does not wait.
I drink one, and on coast Neva
Friends today call me...
But many ль and there from you feast?
Still whom you were not counted?
Who has changed to a captivating habit?
Who from you was carried away with cold light?
Whose voice has stopped on brotherly muster?
Who has not come? Who between you is not present?
It has not come, curly our singer,
With fire in eyes, with a guitar With a sweet voice:
Under myrtles of Italy fine
It silently sleeps, and a friendly cutter
Has not traced above Russian a tomb
Words a little in language native,
That there is no time has found greetings sad
The son of the north, wandering in edge another's.
Whether you sit in a circle of friends,
Another's heavens the lover restless?
Иль again you pass a tropic hot
And an eternal ice midnight the seas?
Happy way!.. With lizey a threshold
You on the ship have stepped joking,
And since that time in the seas your road,
About waves and storms the favourite child!
You have kept in wandering destiny
Fine years customs are initial:
Lizey noise, lizey entertainments
Among rough waves were dreamed to you;
You extended because of the sea to us a hand,
You one in young to a shower carried us
Also repeated: <On long separation
The secret fate, perhaps, has condemned us!>
My friends, our union is fine!
It as soul is inseparable and eternal-
It is firm, it is free and careless
It grew together under the canopy of amicable muses.
Where us has thrown destiny,
And the happiness where has led,
All the same we: to us the whole world foreign land;
Fatherland to us Tsarskoe Selo.
From edge in edge we pursue a thunder-storm,
Confused in networks of destiny severe,
I with trembling on a bosom of friendship new,
The charter, has nestled the caressing chapter...
With entreaty my sad and rebellious,
With trustful hope of first years,
To friends by other soul it was betraid gentle;
But Bitter there was their not brotherly greetings.
And nowadays here, in forgotten this solitude,
In a monastery of deserted blizzards and cold,
To me sweet the joy prepared:
Three from you, friends to my soul,
Here I have embraced. The poet the house disgraced,
About my Puschin, you the first has visited;
You have charmed exiles day sad,
You have transformed into day of its liceum.
You, Gorchakov, the lucky person since first days,
Praise to you - fate shine cold
Has not changed soul your free:
All the same you for honour and friends.
To us the different way is appointed by destiny strict;
Going during a life, we dispatch quickly:
But accidentally a country road
We have met and as the brother have embraced.
When has comprehended me destiny anger,
For all another's, as the orphan the homeless,
Under Storm the chapter I have hung languid
Also waited for you, the prophet permes maidens,
And you have come, the son of laziness eloquent,
About my Delwig: your voice has wakened
Intimate heat, so long lulled,
And I am vigorous destiny have blessed.
From infancy the spirit of songs in us burned,
And marvellous excitement we have learned;
From infancy two muses to us flied,
Also our destiny was sweet their caress:
But I loved already applause,
You proud, sang for muses and as a hobby;
As a life I spent the gift without attention,
You the genius brought up in calm.
Service muses does not suffer vanity;
Fine it should be stately:
But the youth advises us crafty,
And noisy we are pleased with dreams...
Let's come round - but late! And it is sad
We look back, traces not seeing there.
Tell, Wilhelm, not that ль and with us was,
My brother native on a muse, on to destiny?
It is time, it is time! Sincere our flours
It is not necessary the world; we shall leave errors!
Let's hide a life under roof solitudes!
I wait for you, my overdue friend-
Come; fire of the magic story
Intimate legends recover;
Let's talk about rough days of Caucasus,
About Schiller, about glory, about love.
It is time also to me... Feast, about friends!
I have a presentiment pleasant appointment;
Remember the poet prediction:
Year, and with you again I will fly,
The precept of my dreams will be executed;
Year will fly, and I shall be to you!
About how many tears and how many exclamations,
And how many bowls,lifted to heavens!
And the first is fuller, friends, more full!
And all to the bottom in honour of our union!
Bless, an exulting muse,
Bless: long live liceum!
To the instructors stored our youth,
All Honour, both dead and alive,
To lips having lifted a grateful bowl,
Not remembering a harm, for the blessing we shall render.
More full, more full! And, heart возгоря,
Again to the bottom, up to a drop drink!
But for whom? About Friends, guess...
Ur, our tsar! So! We shall drink for tsar.
It the person! It the instant dominates.
It the slave to a rumour, doubts and passions;
Let's forgive to it wrong persecution:
It has taken Paris, it has based liceum.
Feast, for the present we here!
Alas, our circle hour from an hour thins;
Who in a coffin sleeps, who, far, becomes the orphan;
The destiny looks, we fade; days run;
It is invisible being declined and growing cold,
We approach the beginning...
To whom <> from us under an old age put liceum
To triumph it is necessary to one?
The unfortunate friend! Among new generations
Tiresome the visitor both superfluous, and another's,
It will recollect us and days of connections,
Closed eyes shivering a hand...
Start up it with a joy though sad
Then this day behind a bowl will lead,
As nowadays I, the hermit your disgraced,
It has lead without burning and cares. http://geosymbolism.com |