A wish

My days still linger, slow and rough,

Each moment multiplies the sadness

Within the heart of hapless love

And drives my yearning into madness.

I’m silent; I don’t dare to breathe.

I weep, my tears are my salvation.

My soul, held captive in this grief,

In tears alone finds consolation.

No longer do I care if life goes by,

Its empty ghost will lastly set me free;

The sorrow of my love is dear to me--

If I die loving, then I pray let die!
Alexander Pushkin
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To friends

Today your gods do not deny you

These golden nights and golden days,

And gentle, fragile ladies eye you

With an attentive fervent gaze.

Play on, sing on, while you are blessed!

Squander away the fleeting night;

Through tears, I smile at the sight

Of your light-hearted happiness.
Alexander Pushkin
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-What’s new? “I tell you, nothing whatsoever.”

--Don’t fool with me: you’re hiding it, I know.

Oh, don’t you feel ashamed? you think you’re clever

To hide the news from me like from a foe?

Oh, tell me, brother, why? Inform me, I insist!

Don’t be so stubborn, give me just a clue...

“Oh, let me be, the only thing I know is this -

That you’re a fool, but that is nothing new.”
Alexander Pushkin
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Old man

I’m not that lover, filled with passion, -

That youth, who left the world amazed:

Alas, my spring and summer passed now,

And didn’t leave a single trace.

Cupid, the god of youth and love and virtue!

I used to be your steadfast servant;

Oh, if I could be reborn, - I’d serve you

Even more passionate and fervent!
Alexander Pushkin
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To Natasha

The crimson summer now grows pale;

Clear, bright days now soar away;

Hazy mist spreads through the vale,

As the sleeping night turns gray;

The barren cornfields lose their gold;

The lively stream has now turned cold;

The curly woods are gray and stark,

And the heavens have grown dark.

Where are you, my light, Natasha?

No one's seen you, - I lament.

Don't you want to share the passion

Of this moment with a friend?

You have not yet met with me

By the pond, or by our tree,

Though the season has turned late,

We have not yet had a date.

Winter’s cold will soon arrive

Fields will freeze with frost, so bitter.

In the smoky shack, a light,

Soon enough, will shine and glitter.

I won't see my love, - I'll rage

Like a finch, inside a cage,

And at home, depressed and dazed,

I’ll recall Natasha's grace.
Alexander Pushkin
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The wind is stifling and parching

The wind is stifling and parching,

Sun-burnt fingers in the grass,

Overhead, the heaven’s arches

Are made of blue and fragile glass;

The fallen immortelles are drying,

Near the sickle swinging loose.

Working ants have formed a highway

Running up the twisting spruce.

The silver pond is idly gleaming,

Life is easy – no regret…

O, I wonder whom I’ll dream of

In my hammock’s motley net?
Anna Akhmatova
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This morning’s drunk with sunny weather,

And on the terrace, - loud scents of roses,

The sky is brighter than the blue faience.

The notebook’s bound in the soft Morocco leather;

I’m reading in it elegies and verses

All written for my grandma in romance.

I see the road up to the gate, and up ahead,

White pillars shining in the emerald lawn.

The heart loves blindly, completely gripped!

I find delight in gaudy flowerbeds,

The sudden cries of the ascending crow,

And the secluded arches of the crypt.
Anna Akhmatova
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The Demon

His way above the sinful earth
The melancholy Demon winged
And memories of happier days
About his exiled spirit thronged;
Of days when in the halls of light
He shone among the angels bright;
When comets in their headlong flight
Would joy to pay respect to him
As, chaste among the cherubim,
Among th' eternal nebulae
With eager mind and quick surmise
He'd trace their caravanserai
Through the far spaces of the skies;
When he had known both faith and love,
The happy firstling of creation!
When neither doubt nor dark damnation
Had whelmed him with the bitterness
Of fruitless exile year by year,
And when so much, so much...but this
Was more than memory could bear.

Mikhail Lermontov
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Clouds in the skies above, heavenly wanderers,
Long strings of snowy pearls stretched over azure plains!
Exiles like I, you rush farther and farther on,
Leaving my dear North, go distances measureless.
What drives you southward? Is't envy that covertly
Prods you or malice whose arrows strike openly?
Destiny is it? A crime hanging over you?
Or friendship's honeyed but poisonous calumny?
No! O'er those barren wastes heedlessly journeying,
Passion you know not or anguish or punishment;
Feeling you lack, you are free - free eternally,
You have no homeland, for you there's no banishment.
Mikhail Lermontov
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The Dream

In noon's heat, in a dale of Dagestan
With lead inside my breast, stirless I lay;
The deep wound still smoked on; my blood
Kept trickling drop by drop away.
On the dale's sand alone I lay. The cliffs
Crowded around in ledges steep,
And the sun scorched their tawny tops
And scorched me - but I slept death's sleep.
And in a dream I saw an evening feast
That in my native land with bright lights shone;
Among young women crowned with flowers,
A merry talk concerning me went on.
But in the merry talk not joining,
One of them sat there lost in thought,
And in a melancholy dream
Her young soul was immersed - God knows by what.
And of a dale in Dagestan she dreamt;
In that dale lay the corpse of one she knew;
Within his breast a smoking wound showed black,
And blood ran in a stream that colder grew.
Mikhail Lermontov
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