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Best Famous Alexander Pushkin Poems

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by Alexander Pushkin | |

Imitation

 I saw the Death, and she was seating
By quiet entrance at my own home,
I saw the doors were opened in my tomb,
And there, and there my hope was a-flitting
I'll die, and traces of my past
In days of future will be never sighted,
Look of my eyes will never be delighted
By dear look, in my existence last.
Farewell the somber world, where, precipice above, My gloomy road was a-streaming, Where life for me was never cheering, Where I was loving, having not to love! The dazzling heavens' azure curtain, Beloved hills, the brook's enchanting dance, You, mourn -- the inspiration's chance, You, peaceful shades of wilderness, uncertain, And all -- farewell, farewell at once.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

Lyric written in 1830

 What means my name to you?.
.
.
T'will die As does the melancholy murmur Of distant waves or, of a summer, The forest's hushed nocturnal sigh.
Found on a fading album page, Dim will it seem and enigmatic, Like words traced on a tomb, a relic Of some long dead and vanished age.
What's in my name?.
.
.
Long since forgot, Erased by new, tempestuous passion, of tenderness 'twill leave you not The lingering and sweet impression.
But in an hour of agony, Pray, speak it, and recall my image, And say, "He still remembers me, His heart alone still pays me homage.
"


by Alexander Pushkin | |

Morpheus

 Oh, Morpheus, give me joy till morning
For my forever painful love:
Just blow out candles' burning
And let my dreams in blessing move.
Let from my soul disappear The separation's sharp rebuke! And let me see that dear look, And let me hear voice that dear.
And when will vanish dark of night And you will free my eyes at leaving, Oh, if my heart would have a right To lose its love till dark of evening!


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

O Sing Fair Lady When With Me

 O sing, fair lady, when with me
Sad songs of Georgia no more:
They bring into my memory
Another life, a distant shore.
Your beautiful, your cruel tune Brings to my memory, alas, The steppe, the night - and with the moon Lines of a far, unhappy lass.
Forgetting at the sight of you That shadow fateful, shadow dear, I hear you singing - and anew I picture it before me, here.
O sing, fair lady, when with me Sad songs of Georgia no more: They bring into my memory Another life, a distant shore.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

On Count Voronstov

 One half Milord, one half in trade, 
One half a sage, one half a dunce, 
One half a crook, but here for once 
There's every hope he'll make the grade.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

Tempest

 You saw perched on a cliff a maid,
Her raiment white above the breakers,
When the mad sea reared up and played
Its whips of spray on coastal acres
And now and then the lightnings flush,
And purple gleams upon her hover,
And fluttering up in swirling rush,
The wind rides in her airy cover?
Fair is the sea in gales arrayed,
The heavens drained of blue and flashing,
But fairer on her cliff the maid
Than storms and skies and breakers crashing.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

O sing fair lady when with me...

 O sing, fair lady, when with me
Sad songs of Georgia no more:
They bring into my memory
Another life, a distant shore.
Your beautiful, your cruel tune Brings to my memory, alas, The steppe, the night - and with the moon Lines of a far, unhappy lass.
Forgetting at the sight of you That shadow fateful, shadow dear, I hear you singing - and anew I picture it before me, here.
O sing, fair lady, when with me Sad songs of Georgia no more: They bring into my memory Another life, a distant shore.
(A Georgian Romance) Translated by: Genia Gurarie, 10/29/95 Copyright retained by Genia Gurarie.
email: egurarie@princeton.
edu http://www.
princeton.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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!


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

An Invocation

 O if it's true that in the night,
When rest the living in their havens
And liquid rays of lunar light
Glide down on tombstones from the heavens,
O if it's true that still and bare
Are then the graves until aurora --
I call the shade, I wait for Laura:
To me, my friend, appear, appear!

Beloved shadow, come to me
As at our parting -- wintry, ashen
In your last minutes' agony;
Emerge in any form or fashion:
A distant star across the sphere,
A gentle sound, a puff of air or
The most appalling wraith of terror,
I care not how: appear, appear!.
.
I call you -- not to speak my scorn Of people whose ill-fated malice Has killed my friend, and not to learn The secrets of the nether-palace, And not because a doubt may tear My heart at times.
.
.
but as I suffer, I want to say that still I love her, That still I'm yours: appear, appear!


by Alexander Pushkin | |

Arion

 A lot of us were on the bark:
Some framed a sail for windy weather,
The others strongly and together
Moved oars.
In silence sunk, Keeping a rudder, strong and clever, The skipper drove the heavy skiff; And I -- with careless belief -- I sang for sailors.
.
.
.
But the stiff Whirl smashed at once the waters' favor.
.
.
All dead -- the captain and his guard! -- But I, the enigmatic bard, Was thrown to the shore alone.
I sing the former anthems, yet, And dry my mantle, torn and wet, In beams of sun under a stone.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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 .
.
.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

Friendship

 What's friendship? The hangover's faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,
Or bitter shame of patronage.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

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.


by Alexander Pushkin | |

The Name

 What is my name to you? 'T will die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a lone splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry .
.
.
'T will leave a lifeless trace among names on your tablets: the design of an entangled gravestone line in an unfathomable tongue.
What is it then? A long-dead past, lost in the rush of madder dreams, upon your soul it will not cast Mnemosyne's pure tender beams.
But if some sorrow comes to you, utter my name with sighs, and tell the silence: "Memory is true - there beats a heart wherein I dwell.
"