Tempest

Who saw the maiden on the rock --
Closed in white -- and waves around,
When, in the stormy darkness locked,
The sea was playing with the ground?

When she was every minute lit
By scarlet lights in thunder’s rattle,
And wind was ravishing and swift
In crazy flight with her white mantle?

The sea is beautiful, when rocks,
And skies -- with flashes, void of azure;
But, Lord! The maiden on the rock
Was more beautiful than nature!
Alexander Pushkin
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Solitude

He's blessed, who lives in peace, that's distant
From the ignorant fobs with calls,
Who can provide his every instance
With dreams, or labors, or recalls;
To whom the fate sends friends in score,
Who hides himself by Savior's back
From bashful fools, which lull and bore,
And from the impudent ones, which wake.
Alexander Pushkin
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The Singer

Did you attend? He sang by grove ripe -
The bard of love, the singer of his mourning.
When fields were silent by the early morning,
To sad and simple sounds of a pipe
Did you attend?

Did you behold in dark of forest leaf
The bard of love, the singer of his sadness?
The trace of tears, the smile, the utter paleness,
The quiet look, full of eternal grief,
Did you behold?

Then did you sigh when hearing how cries
The bard of love, the singer of his dole?
When in the woods you saw the young man, sole,
And met the look of his extinguished eyes,
Then did you sigh?
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Shoemaker

Once a shoemaker, on the art’s creation,
In drown shoes had found a mistake;
With his fast brush, an artist made correction;
But the shoemaker went without a break:
“I think the face a little crooked is shown…
The breast’s much bared, as I’ve understood...”
Here Apelles stopped him (his patience gone):
“Friend, judge the things not higher than a boot!”

Mid friends of mine, I too see one, the clever;
I do not know in which a subject ever
He’d be an ace, tho’ his words of strong roots,
But just a fiend brings him to judge men’ level:
Let him make judgment only for their boots!
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Remembrance

When, for the mortal one, is stilled the noisy day,
And, on the silent city’s buildings,
The easy shadow of night is softly laid,
And sleep – the prize for daily grindings,
Then in the silent air they painfully drag on –
My hours, sleepless ones and endless:
Bites of the remorse-snake, in my heart, stronger burn
In night’s unquestionable blankness.
My fancies boil. My mind, under a pine,
Is overfilled with meditations;
Remembrance silently, before sad eyes of mine,
Unrolls its scroll in lines’ successions.
And reading with despite the life, I had before,
I curse the world, and tremble, breathless,
And bitterly complain, and shed my tears sore,
But don’t wash out the lines of sadness.
Alexander Pushkin
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The Prisoner

I'm sitting by bars in the damp blackened cell --
The juvenile eagle, who's bred by the jail,
My mournful friend, with his wings stretching wide,
Is picking at bloody food right by my side.

He’s picking and looking at me through the bars,
Like having a thought that is common to us,
Like calling to me with a glance and a sight,
And wanting to say, "Let us fly outside!

We're free proud birds; it is time for the friends
To fly to the white of the rock in a haze,
To fly to the blue of the sea and the sky,
Where evenly dwell only tempests ... and I!"
Alexander Pushkin
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Presentiment

Again clouds of the mute heavens
Came together o’er my head;
And again the karma, envious,
Threatens me with future’s bad…
Should I scorn all fate’s intentions?
Should I bear her against
The great stubbornness and patience
Of my proud youthful years?

By my stormy living tired,
I, indifferent, wait for storms:
Maybe, I’d, once more saved out,
Find a harbor in my roams.
But divining separation –
That appalling, fateful trice –
I squeeze your hand with such passion
As if this time were the last.

Merciful and peaceful angel,
Softly tell me ‘fare you well’,
Just be sad: let your look, gentle,
Gently rise or gently fell;
And this charming recollection,
In my heart, will hold a place
Of the strengths, pride, expectations
And imprudence of young years.
Alexander Pushkin
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The Portrait

With her forever burning soul,
With her forever stormy passions,
Oh, northern wives, amidst you, precious,
She sometimes follows her goal.
And, passing by all world’s conditions,
She speeds till her strengths will be ended…
Just like a comet, injudicious,
Amidst the planets, calculated.
Alexander Pushkin
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My Beauty, Do Not Sing For Me

My beauty, do not sing for me
The songs of Georgia, of grievance:
My thoughts immediately flee
To another life and shores in distance.

They bring to me -- your cruel tunes --
Alas, the sad and clear vision:
The steppe, the night -- under the moon,
The poor and very distant virgin.

While seeing you, I could forget
The image so sad and fair,
But, look, you sing -- and it is set
Again before my eyes in air.

My beauty, do not sing for me
The songs of Georgia, of grievance:
My thoughts immediately flee
To another life and shores in distance.
Alexander Pushkin
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Muse

In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile -- without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
>From morn till night in oaks' silent shade
I diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;
Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,
And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,
She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.
The reed became alive in consecrated breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
Alexander Pushkin
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