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Best Famous Alexander Pushkin Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Alexander Pushkin poems. This is a select list of the best famous Alexander Pushkin poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Alexander Pushkin poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of Alexander Pushkin poems.

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Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

Friendship

 What's friendship? The hangover's faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,
Or bitter shame of patronage.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Drowned Man

 Children running into izba,
Calling father, dripping sweat:
"Daddy, daddy! come -- there is a
Deadman caught inside our net.
" "Fancy, fancy fabrication.
.
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" Grumbled off their weary Pa, "Have these imps imagination! Deadman, really! ya-ha-ha.
.
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"Well.
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the court may come to bother - What'll I say before the judge? Hey you brats, go have your mother Bring my coat; I better trudge.
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Show me, where?" -- "Right there, Dad, farther!" On the sand where netting ropes Lay spread out, the peasant father Saw the veritable corpse.
Badly mangled, ugly, frightening, Blue and swollen on each side.
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Has he fished in storm and lightning, Or committed suicide? Could this be a careless drunkard, Or a mermaid-seeking monk, Or a merchandizer, conquered By some bandits, robbed and sunk? To the peasant, what's it matter! Quick: he grabs the dead man's hair, Drags his body to the water, Looks around: nobody's there: Good.
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relieved of the concern he Shoves his paddle at a loss, While the stiff resumes his journey Down the stream for grave and cross.
Long the dead man as one living Rocked on waves amid the foam.
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Surly as he watched him leaving, Soon our peasant headed home.
"Come you pups! let's go, don't scatter.
Each of you will get his bun.
But remember: just you chatter -- And I'll whip you, every one.
" Dark and stormy it was turning.
High the river ran in gloom.
Now the torch has finished burning In the peasant's smoky room.
Kids asleep, the wife aslumber, He lies listening to the rain.
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Bang! he hears a sudden comer Knocking on the window-pane.
"What the.
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" -- "Let me in there, master!" "Damn, you found the time to roam! Well, what is it, your disaster? Let you in? It's dark at home, Dark and crowded.
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What a pest you are! Where'd I put you in my cot.
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" Slowly, with a lazy gesture, He lifts up the pane and - what? Through the clouds, the moon was showing.
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Well? the naked man was there, Down his hair the water flowing, Wide his eyes, unmoved the stare; Numb the dreadful-looking body, Arms were hanging feeble, thin; Crabs and cancers, black and bloody, Sucked into the swollen skin.
As the peasant slammed the shutter (Recognized his visitant) Horror-struck he could but mutter "Blast you!" and began to pant.
He was shuddering, awful chaos All night through stirred in his brain, While the knocking shook the house By the gates and at the pane.
People tell a dreadful rumor: Every year the peasant, say, Waiting in the worst of humor For his visitor that day; As the rainstorm is increasing, Nightfall brings a hurricane - And the drowned man knocks, unceasing, By the gates and at the pane.
Translated by: Genia Gurarie, 11/95 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

I loved you..

 I loved you, and I probably still do,
And for a while the feeling may remain.
.
.
But let my love no longer trouble you, I do not wish to cause you any pain.
I loved you; and the hopelessness I knew, The jealousy, the shyness - though in vain - Made up a love so tender and so true As may God grant you to be loved again.
Translated by Genia Gurarie, 11/10/95 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Dream

 Not long ago, in a charming dream,
I saw myself -- a king with crown's treasure;
I was in love with you, it seemed,
And heart was beating with a pleasure.
I sang my passion's song by your enchanting knees.
Why, dreams, you didn't prolong my happiness forever? But gods deprived me not of whole their favor: I only lost the kingdom of my dreams.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Water-Nymph

 In lakeside leafy groves, a friar
Escaped all worries; there he passed
His summer days in constant prayer,
Deep studies and eternal fast.
Already with a humble shovel The elder dug himself a grave - As, calling saints to bless his hovel, Death - nothing other - did he crave.
So once, upon a falling night, he Was bowing by his wilted shack With meekest prayer to the Almighty.
The grove was turning slowly black; Above the lake a mist was lifting; Through milky clouds across the sky The ruddy moon was softly drifting, When water drew the friar's eye.
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He's looking puzzled, full of trouble, Of fear he cannot quite explain, He sees the waves begin to bubble And suddenly grow calm again.
Then -- white as first snow in the highlands, Light-footed as nocturnal shade, There comes ashore, and sits in silence Upon the bank, a naked maid.
She eyes the monk and brushes gently Her hair, and water off her arms.
He shakes with fear and looks intently At her, and at her lovely charms.
With eager hand she waves and beckons, Nods quickly, smiles as from afar And shoots, within two flashing seconds, Into still water like a star.
The glum old man slept not an instant; All day, not even once he prayed: Before his eyes still hung and glistened The wondrous, the relentless shade.
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The grove puts on its gown of nightfall; The moon walks on the cloudy floor; And there's the maiden - pale, delightful, Reclining on the spellbound shore.
She looks at him, her hair she brushes, Blows airy kisses, gestures wild, Plays with the waves - caresses, splashes - Now laughs, now whimpers like a child, Moans tenderly, calls louder, louder.
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"Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!.
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" Then - disappears in limpid water, And all is silent instantly.
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On the third day the zealous hermit Was sitting by the shore, in love, Awaiting the delightful mermaid, As shade was covering the grove.
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Dark ceded to the sun's emergence; Our monk had wholly disappeared - Before a crowd of local urchins, While fishing, found his hoary beard.
Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

A Little Bird

 In alien lands I keep the body
Of ancient native rites and things:
I gladly free a little birdie
At celebration of the spring.
I'm now free for consolation, And thankful to almighty Lord: At least, to one of his creations I've given freedom in this world!
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

An Elegy

 The senseless years' extinguished mirth and laughter
Oppress me like some hazy morning-after.
But sadness of days past, as alcohol - The more it age, the stronger grip the soul.
My course is dull.
The future's troubled ocean Forebodes me toil, misfortune and commotion.
But no, my friends, I do not wish to leave; I'd rather live, to ponder and to grieve - And I shall have my share of delectation Amid all care, distress and agitation: Time and again I'll savor harmony, Melt into tears about some fantasy, And on my sad decline, to ease affliction, May love yet show her smile of valediction.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Wish

 I shed my tears; my tears – my consolation;
And I am silent; my murmur is dead,
My soul, sunk in a depression’s shade,
Hides in its depths the bitter exultation.
I don’t deplore my passing dream of life -- Vanish in dark, the empty apparition! I care only for my love’s infliction, And let me die, but only die in love!
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

Confession (to Alina Osipova 1826)

 I love you - though it makes me beat,
Though vain it seems, and melancholy -
Yet to this shameless, hapless folly
I'll be confessing at your feet.
It ill becomes me: that I'm older, Time I should be more sensible.
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And yet the frivolous disorder Fills every jitter of my soul.
Say you'll be gone - I'm jaded, yawning; You're back - I'm sad, I suffer through - Yet how can I be clear, from owning, My angel, all my care for you! When off the stairs your weightless footfall, Your dress's rustle, reaches me, Your voice, as maidenly, as youthful - I lose my senses instantly.
You smile at me - I'm glad, immensely; Ignore me - and I'm sad, again; Your pallid hand will recompense me For the whole day of utter pain.
When you're embroidering, or setting Your eye on something fair, or letting Your hair amuse you - I'm beguiled; In silence, reddening, all forgetting I watch you like a spellbound child.
But then how wretched my existence, How desolate my jealous pain, When you set out into the distance To wander in the cold and rain; And then your solitary grievings, Or, in the corner, twosome talks, Or twosome piano in the evenings, Or twosome trips, or twosome walks.
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Alina! just a little mercy - I dare not even mention love: For sins I have been guilty of, My angel, of your care unworthy.
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But feign it! All can be achieved By that absorbing gaze, believe me.
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Oh, it takes little to deceive me - I cannot wait to be deceived! (tr.
by Genia Gurarie, 10.
95 - 4.
99) Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

Remembrance

 When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years, I tremble, and I curse my natal day, Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears, But cannot wash the woeful script away.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

Devils

 Storm-clouds hurtle, storm-clouds hover;
Flying snow is set alight
By the moon whose form they cover;
Blurred the heavens, blurred the night.
On and on our coach advances, Little bell goes din-din-din.
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Round are vast, unknown expanses; Terror, terror is within.
-- Faster, coachman! "Can't, sir, sorry: Horses, sir, are nearly dead.
I am blinded, all is blurry, All snowed up; can't see ahead.
Sir, I tell you on the level: We have strayed, we've lost the trail.
What can WE do, when a devil Drives us, whirls us round the vale? "There, look, there he's playing, jolly! Huffing, puffing in my course; There, you see, into the gully Pushing the hysteric horse; Now in front of me his figure Looms up as a queer mile-mark -- Coming closer, growing bigger, Sparking, melting in the dark.
" Storm-clouds hurtle, storm-clouds hover; Flying snow is set alight By the moon whose form they cover; Blurred the heavens, blurred the night.
We can't whirl so any longer! Suddenly, the bell has ceased, Horses halted.
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-- Hey, what's wrong there? "Who can tell! -- a stump? a beast?.
.
" Blizzard's raging, blizzard's crying, Horses panting, seized by fear; Far away his shape is flying; Still in haze the eyeballs glare; Horses pull us back in motion, Little bell goes din-din-din.
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I behold a strange commotion: Evil spirits gather in -- Sundry, ugly devils, whirling In the moonlight's milky haze: Swaying, flittering and swirling Like the leaves in autumn days.
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What a crowd! Where are they carried? What's the plaintive song I hear? Is a goblin being buried, Or a sorceress married there? Storm-clouds hurtle, storm-clouds hover; Flying snow is set alight By the moon whose form they cover; Blurred the heavens, blurred the night.
Swarms of devils come to rally, Hurtle in the boundless height; Howling fills the whitening valley, Plaintive screeching rends my heart.
.
.
Translated by Genia Gurarie July 29, 1995.
Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

Bound for your distant home

 Bound for your distant home
you were leaving alien lands.
In an hour as sad as I’ve known I wept over your hands.
My hands were numb and cold, still trying to restrain you, whom my hurt told never to end this pain.
But you snatched your lips away from our bitterest kiss.
You invoked another place than the dismal exile of this.
You said, ‘When we meet again, in the shadow of olive-trees, we shall kiss, in a love without pain, under cloudless infinities.
’ But there, alas, where the sky shines with blue radiance, where olive-tree shadows lie on the waters glittering dance, your beauty, your suffering, are lost in eternity.
But the sweet kiss of our meeting .
.
.
I wait for it: you owe it me .
.
.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Night

 My voice that is for you the languid one, and gentle,
Disturbs the velvet of the dark night's mantle,
By my bedside, a candle, my sad guard,
Burns, and my poems ripple and merge in flood --
And run the streams of love, run, full of you alone,
And in the dark, your eyes shine like the precious stones,
And smile to me, and hear I the voice:
My friend, my sweetest friend.
.
.
I love.
.
.
I'm yours.
.
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I'm yours!
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The wondrous moment of our meeting..

 The wondrous moment of our meeting.
.
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Still I remember you appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In hopeless ennui surrounding The worldly bustle, to my ear For long your tender voice kept sounding, For long in dreams came features dear.
Time passed.
Unruly storms confounded Old dreams, and I from year to year Forgot how tender you had sounded, Your heavenly features once so dear.
My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet -- Dull fence around, dark vault above -- Devoid of God and uninspired, Devoid of tears, of fire, of love.
Sleep from my soul began retreating, And here you once again appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear.
In ecstasy my heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive.
Written by Alexander Pushkin | Create an image from this poem

The Flower

 A flower - shrivelled, bare of fragrance,
Forgotten on a page - I see,
And instantly my soul awakens,
Filled with an aimless reverie:

When did it bloom? the last spring? earlier?
How long? Where was it plucked? By whom?
By foreign hands? or by familiar?
And why put here, as in a tomb?

To mark a tender meeting by it?
A parting with a precious one?
Or just a walk, alone and quiet,
In forests' shade? in meadows' sun?

Is she alive? Is he still with her?
Where is their haven at this hour?
Or did they both already wither,
Like this unfathomable flower?

Translated by: Genia Gurarie, summer of 1995
Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.