Eugene Onegin (Chapter 1)

My uncle -- high ideals inspire him;
but when past joking he fell sick,
he really forced one to admire him --
and never played a shrewder trick.
Let others learn from his example!
But God, how deadly dull to sample
sickroom attendance night and day
and never stir a foot away!
And the sly baseness, fit to throttle,
of entertaining the half-dead:
one smoothes the pillows down in bed,
and glumly serves the medicine bottle,
and sighs, and asks oneself all through:
"When will the devil come for you?"''

Next in full article...
Alexander Pushkin
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Winter evening (ver. 2)

The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
Now rustling the decayed thatch
On our tumbledown roof,
Now, like a delayed traveller,
Knocking on our window pane.


Our wretched little cottage
Is gloomy and dark.
Why do you sit all silent
Hugging the window, old gran?
Has the howling of the storm
Wearied you, at last, dear friend?
Or are you dozing fitfully
Under the spinning wheel's humming?

Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Sing me a song of how the bluetit
Quietly lives across the sea.
Sing me a song of how the young girl
Went to fetch water in the morning.

The storm wind covers the sky
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child.
Let us drink, dearest friend
To my poor wasted youth.
Let us drink from grief - Where's the glass?
Our hearts at least will be lightened.
Alexander Pushkin
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My friend, it’s time

My friend, it’s time! The heart demands a break -

Day after day flies by, and every hour takes

A bit of being from us, while you and I

Make plans to live together – we may die.

There is no happiness, but there is peace of heart.

So many years I’ve dreamt about this part –

So many years, a tired slave, I planned my flight

Someplace where I will work to my delight.
Alexander Pushkin
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Elegy

From the elation of the years that faded,

As though from drinking, I feel wearied, jaded.

But still, the sorrow of lost years—like wine,

Grows only stronger in my soul with time.

My road is gloomy. Only work and sorrow

Are promised by the raging seas of morrow.

But, o my friends, I do not want to leave!

I want to be alive, to think and grieve;

And I predict, that I will find some pleasure

Amidst anxiety, amidst the stress and pressure.

Some day, perhaps, I’ll find my harmony,

And only lukewarm tears will comfort me,

And love will flash her smile once again

In farewell to illumine my descent.
Alexander Pushkin
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I loved you... (ver. 2)

I loved you: and perhaps this flame

Has not gone out completely in my soul;

No longer shall it ever cause you pain;

I do not want to sadden you at all.

I loved you frantically, without reserve,

At times too jealous, and at times too shy,

I pray to God you get what you deserve -

Another man with love as true as mine.
Alexander Pushkin
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Flower

A withered flower lies forgotten

Inside a book, before my eyes:

My soul awakes, all of the sudden,

And I begin to fantasize:

Where did it grow? Among which plants?

How long ago? And picked by whom,

By foreign or familiar hands?

Did it already start to bloom?

Placed here in tribute to a date,

Or to a fateful separation?

Or to a stroll under the shade,

Alone, without a destination?

Is he or she alive today?

Where did they find their hidden nook?

Or did they also fade away,

Just like this flower in the book?
Alexander Pushkin
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Oh what a night

Oh what a night! There’s biting frost,

There are no clouds on the coast;

The azure arch, a woven plaid,

Is dazzled with the frequent stars.

All homes are dark. And every gate

Is safely locked with bolts and bars.

And all is peaceful as of late.

At last, the marketplace is calm,

The guarding dog just barks alone,

And with the loud chains it rumbles.

While all of Moscow’s dead in slumber,

The restlessness of fear forgetting.

The square, in murkiness of night,

Stands filled with yesterday’s beheading.

The torture’s imprints still abide:

Where with a blade a man was struck,

Where there are pitchforks, where there are

The cooled off cauldrons filled with tar;

Where there are tumbled over blocks;

And metal teeth are sticking out,

And bones with ashes are consumed,

Upon the stakes, above the ground,

Dead bodies darken from the fume...

Not long ago, fresh blood was sliding

Pigmenting snow along the way

And languid moans were rising, rising,

But death embraced them, tranquilizing,

And overtook her easy prey.

Who’s there? Whose horse is it that’s speeding

Across the gloomy square to fight?

Whose blaring whistle, loud speaking

Is heard in twilight of the night?

Who is he? – Overfilled with greed.

The brave one hurries to his date,

By his desire made irate

He pleads: “My valiant, intrepid steed,

Fly like an arrow at full speed!

Oh faster, faster!...” The ardent horse

Just swings its mane, and comes to pause.

In gloominess, between the posts

Upon the long and wooden crossbeam,

A corpse is swaying. And the horseman

Is ready to advance and cross,

But for some reason under lashes

The steed just sniffs and snorts and rushes

Back. “Where to?! Ahead, ahead!

What is with you! What is to dread?

We rode here yesterday at night,

Wasn’t it us who stomped with pride,

Inflamed with vengeance from afar,

The evil traitors of the czar?

Remember, it's their blood we used

To wash and clean your steely hooves?!

Have you forgotten all, with spite?

My daring steed, this is your course

Now gallop, fly...” The tired horse,

Beneath the corpse, begins her stride.
Alexander Pushkin
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O blazing Muse

O blazing Muse of pure satire!

Come forth on my inviting call!

I do not need the thundering lyre,

Give me the scourge of Juvenal!

And neither lifeless imitators

Nor hungry, gluttonous translators,

Nor rhymesters, unsatisfied ,

Shall fester from my pen tonight.

Peace to the poets, poor creators,

Peace to the journal’s adulators,

Peace to the fools who have been tamed!

But rascals, you I’ll put to shame,--

Come forth you villains, don’t resist!

And everyone I’ll punished then

But if by chance one I shall miss,

Please do remind me, gentlemen!

How many faces -- shameless-pale,

How many forehands -- dull and stale,

Stand here, all ready to acquire

The timeless imprint of my lyre!
Alexander Pushkin
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To *** (I still recall that wondrous moment...)

I still recall the wondrous moment:

When you appeared before my sight

As though a brief and fleeting omen,

Pure phantom in enchanting light.

In sorrow, when I felt unwell,

Caught in the bustle, in a daze,

I fell under your voice’s spell

And dreamt the features of your face.

Years passed and gales had dispelled

My former hopes, and in those days,

I lost your voice’s sacred spell,

The holy features of your face.

Detained in darkness, isolation,

My days began to drag in strife.

Without faith and inspiration,

Without tears, and love and life.

My soul attained its waking moment:

You re-appeared before my sight,

As though a brief and fleeting omen,

Pure phantom in enchanting light.

And now, my heart, with fascination,

Beats rapidly and finds revived

Devout faith and inspiration,

And tender tears and love and life.
Alexander Pushkin
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