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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 |

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.
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.
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.
"Come, monk, come, monk! To me, to me!.
" Then - disappears in limpid water, And all is silent instantly.
On the third day the zealous hermit Was sitting by the shore, in love, Awaiting the delightful mermaid, As shade was covering the grove.
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.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |

The Prophet

 Longing for spiritual springs,
I dragged myself through desert sands .
An angel with three pairs of wings Arrived to me at cross of lands; With fingers so light and slim He touched my eyes as in a dream: And opened my prophetic eyes Like eyes of eagle in surprise.
He touched my ears in movement, single, And they were filled with noise and jingle: I heard a shuddering of heavens, And angels' flight on azure heights And creatures' crawl in long sea nights, And rustle of vines in distant valleys.
And he bent down to my chin, And he tore off my tongue of sin, In cheat and idle talks aroused, And with his hand in bloody specks He put the sting of wizard snakes Into my deadly stoned mouth.
With his sharp sword he cleaved my breast, And plucked my quivering heart out, And coals flamed with God's behest, Into my gaping breast were ground.
Like dead I lay on desert sands, And listened to the God's commands: 'Arise, O prophet, hark and see, Be filled with utter My demands, And, going over Land and Sea, Burn with your Word the humane hearts.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |


 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.

More great poems below...

Written 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.
edu/~egurarie/ For permission to reproduce, write personally to the translator.

Written 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.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |


 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.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |

Thou and You

 She substituted, by a chance,
For empty "you" -- the gentle "thou";
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound.
In bliss and silence do I stay, Unable to maintain my role: "Oh, how sweet you are!" I say -- "How I love thee!" says my soul.

Written 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.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |


 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.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |

The Talisman

 Where the sea forever dances
Over lonely cliff and dune,
Where sweet twilight's vapor glances
In a warmer-glowing moon,
Where with the seraglio's graces
Daylong toys the Mussulman,
An enchantress 'mid embraces
Handed me a talisman.
'Mid embraces I was bidden: "Guard this talisman of mine: In it secret power is hidden! Love himself has made it thine.
Neither death nor ills nor aging, My beloved, does it ban, Nor in gales and tempest raging Can avail my talisman.
Never will it help thee gather Treasures of the Orient coast, Neither to thy harness tether Captives of the Prophet's host; Nor in sadness will it lead thee To a friendly bosom, nor From this alien southland speed thee To the native northern shore.
"But whenever eyes designing Cast on thee a sudden spell, In the darkness lips entwining Love thee not, but kiss too well: Shield thee, love, from evil preying, From new heart-wounds---that it can, From forgetting, from betraying Guards thee this my talisman.

Written 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.

Written by Alexander Pushkin |

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.
I'm yours!

Written 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 .

Written by Alexander Pushkin |

The Upas Tree

 Deep in the desert's misery,
far in the fury of the sand,
there stands the awesome Upas Tree
lone watchman of a lifeless land.
The wilderness, a world of thirst, in wrath engendered it and filled its every root, every accursed grey leafstalk with a sap that killed.
Dissolving in the midday sun the poison oozes through its bark, and freezing when the day is done gleams thick and gem-like in the dark.
No bird flies near, no tiger creeps; alone the whirlwind, wild and black, assails the tree of death and sweeps away with death upon its back.
And though some roving cloud may stain with glancing drops those leaden leaves, the dripping of a poisoned rain is all the burning sand receives.
But man sent man with one proud look towards the tree, and he was gone, the humble one, and there he took the poison and returned at dawn.
He brought the deadly gum; with it he brought some leaves, a withered bough, while rivulets of icy sweat ran slowly down his livid brow.
He came, he fell upon a mat, and reaping a poor slave's reward, died near the painted hut where sat his now unconquerable lord.
The king, he soaked his arrows true in poison, and beyond the plains dispatched those messengers and slew his neighbors in their own domains.

Written 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!