Great ones about poetry:
Poetry is like painting: some works will captivate you more if you look at them closely, and others if you move further away.
Small cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creaking of unoiled wheels.
The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is what has gone wrong.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Of all the arts, poetry is the most susceptible to the temptation to replace its own peculiar beauty with stolen splendors.
Humboldt V.
Poems are successful if they are created with spiritual clarity.
The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is usually believed.
If only you knew from what rubbish poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion on a fence, like burdocks and quinoa.
A. A. Akhmatova
Poetry is not only in verses: it is poured out everywhere, it is all around us. Look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life emanate from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.
G. Lichtenberg
A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. The poet makes our thoughts sing within us, not our own. By telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He's a magician. By understanding him, we become poets like him.
Where graceful poetry flows, there is no room for vanity.
Murasaki Shikibu
I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in the Russian language. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. It is through feeling that art certainly emerges. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
-...Are your poems good, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! – Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
– Don’t write anymore! – the newcomer asked pleadingly.
- I promise and swear! - Ivan said solemnly...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"
We all write poetry; poets differ from others only in that they write in their words.
John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"
Every poem is a veil stretched over the edges of a few words. These words shine like stars, and because of them the poem exists.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok
Ancient poets, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. This is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times there is certainly hidden an entire Universe, filled with miracles - often dangerous for those who carelessly awaken the dozing lines.
Max Fry. "Chatty Dead"
I gave one of my clumsy hippopotamuses this heavenly tail:...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea, and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive away the critics. They are just pathetic sippers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let poetry seem to him like an absurd moo, a chaotic pile-up of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from a boring mind, a glorious song sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing more than pure poetry that has rejected the word.
Current page: 2 (book has 6 pages in total)
"On the high tree of humanity..."
On the tree of humanity high
You were his best leaf 9
Dedicated to the memory of Goethe, who died on March 22, 1832.,
Nurtured by its purest juice,
Developed by the purest rays of the sun!With his great soul
You trembled more in tune with everyone else on it!
Prophetically spoke with the storm
Or had fun playing with marshmallows!Not a late whirlwind, not a stormy summer shower
I plucked you from my birth branch:
Was more beautiful than many, long-lived,
And he fell of his own accord, as if from a wreath!
PROBLEM 10
Problem ( French).– Ed.
Having rolled down the mountain, the stone lay in the valley.
How did he fall? no one knows now -
Did he fall from the top? myself yourself,
Or was overthrown by the will of someone else?
Century after century flew by:
No one has yet resolved the issue.
“There is silence in the stuffy air...”
Silence in the stuffy air 11
The poem is dedicated to Ernestine von Dörnberg.,
Like a premonition of a thunderstorm,
The scent is hotter than roses,
The voice of a dragonfly is louder...Chu! behind a white, smoky cloud
Thunder rolled dully;
Sky lightning flying
Girded all around...There is a certain excess of life
Spilled in the sultry air,
Like a divine drink
It burns and burns in your veins!Virgo, maiden, what worries
A haze of young Perseus?..
What is troubled, what is sad
The wet shine of your eyes?What, turning pale, freezes
The flames of virgins' cheeks?
Why is your chest heaving so much?
And your lips are burning?..Through silk eyelashes
Two tears appeared...
Or maybe raindrops
The beginning of a thunderstorm?..No later than 1835
“What are you saying over the waters...”
What are you bowing over the waters,
Willow, the top of your head?
And trembling leaves,
Like greedy lips,
Are you catching a running stream?..Even if it languishes, even if it trembles
Every leaf of yours is above the stream...
But the stream runs and splashes,
And, basking in the sun, it shines,
And laughs at you...No later than 1835
“The evening is hazy and stormy...”
The evening is hazy and stormy...
Chu, isn’t that a lark’s voice?..
Are you the wonderful guest of the morning,
At this late, dead hour?..
Flexible, playful, sonorously clear,
At this dead, late hour,
Horrible laughter like madness,
He shook my soul!..No later than 1835
SLEEP AT SEA
Both the sea and the storm rocked our canoe;
I, sleepy, was given over to all the whims of the waves.
There were two infinities in me,
And they played with me willfully.
Around me the rocks sounded like cymbals,
The winds called and the waves sang.
I lay stunned in the chaos of sounds,
But above the chaos of sounds my dream floated.
Painfully bright, magically mute,
It blew lightly over the thundering darkness.
In the rays of the firelight he developed his world -
The earth turned green, the ether glowed,
Lavirinth gardens, palaces, pillars,
And the hosts seethed with silent crowds.
I recognized a lot of unknown faces,
Mature magical creatures, mysterious birds,
Along the heights of creation, like a god, I walked,
And the motionless world shone beneath me.
But all dreams through and through, like a wizard's howl,
I heard the roar of the deep sea,
And into the quiet region of visions and dreams
The foam of the roaring waves rushed in.September (?) 1833
SCALD'S HARP
O skald's harp! How long have you been sleeping
In the shadows, in the dust of a forgotten corner;
But only the moon, enchanting the darkness,
The azure light flashed in your corner,
Suddenly a wonderful ringing began to vibrate in the string
Like the delirium of a soul disturbed in a dream.What kind of life did he breathe on you?
Or did he remember the old days for you -
Like voluptuous maidens here at night
The long-past chant echoed,
Or in these blooming and offering gardens
Did an invisible step slide across their light feet?
“I’m a Lutheran and I love worship...”
I am a Lutheran and love worship.
Their ritual is strict, important and simple -
These bare walls, this empty temple
I understand the high teaching.Don't you see? Getting ready for the road,
This is the last time you will have faith:
She hasn't crossed the threshold yet,
But her house is already empty and bare, -She hasn't crossed the threshold yet,
The door hasn't closed behind her yet...
But the hour has come, it has struck... Pray to God,
The last time you pray is now.
“What are you howling about, night wind?..”
What are you howling about, night wind?
Why are you complaining so madly?..
What does your strange voice mean?
Either dully plaintive or noisy?
In a language understandable to the heart
You talk about incomprehensible torment -
And you dig and explode in it
Sometimes frantic sounds!..Oh, don’t sing these scary songs
About ancient chaos, about my dear!
How greedily the world of the soul is at night
Hears the story of his beloved!
It tears from a mortal breast,
He longs to merge with the infinite!..
Oh, don’t wake up sleeping storms -
Chaos is stirring beneath them!..No later than 1835
“The stream has thickened and is dimming...”
The stream has thickened and dimmed,
And hides under solid ice,
And the color fades and the sound goes numb
In an icy daze, -
Only life immortal key
The omnipotent cold cannot bind:
It keeps pouring - and, murmuring,
The dead silence is disturbing.So in the orphaned chest,
Killed by the cold of existence,
Joyful youth does not flow,
The frisky stream does not shine, -
But under the icy crust
There is still life, there is still murmur -
And sometimes you can hear clearly
The key is a mysterious whisper.No later than 1835
“And the coffin has already been lowered into the grave...”
And the coffin has already been lowered into the grave,
And everything crowded around...
They push, they breathe through force,
A pernicious spirit buries the chest...And over the open grave,
At the head, where the coffin stands,
Learned pastor, dignified,
The funeral oration reads...Broadcasts the frailty of man,
The Fall, the blood of Christ...
And smart, decent speech
The crowd is variously busy...And the sky is so imperishable and pure,
So limitless above the earth...
And the birds soar loudly
In the abyss of air, blue...No later than 1835
“The East was turning white. The rook was rolling..."
The East turned white. The rook was rolling 12
,
The sail sounded cheerful, -
Like an overturned sky
The sea trembled beneath us...The East is red. She prayed
Throwing back the veil from my forehead,
A prayer breathed on my lips,
The sky rejoiced in my eyes...The East flared up. She bowed down
Shiny, drooping neck, -
And on infant cheeks
Drops of fire streamed...No later than 1835
“Like a bird, early dawn...”
Like a bird, early dawn
The world, awakening, perked up...
Ah, just one chapter of mine
The blessed dream did not touch!
Even though the morning freshness blows
In my disheveled hair,
I can feel it weighing on me
Yesterday's heat, yesterday's ashes!..Oh, how piercing and wild,
How hateful to me
This noise, movement, talking, screams
Have a nice, fiery day!..
Oh, how crimson its rays are,
How they burn my eyes!..
O night, night, where are your covers,
Your quiet darkness and dew!..Fragments of old generations,
You who have outlived your age!
Like your complaints, your penalties
Wrong righteous reproach!
How sad a half-asleep shadow is,
With exhaustion in the bones,
Towards the sun and movement
To wander after a new tribe!..No later than 1835
"Where the mountains are, running away..."
Where the mountains are, running away,
The distances stretch into the light,
The notorious Danube
Eternal streams flow...There, they say, in the old days,
On azure nights,
Fairies danced in circles
Under water and across the waters;I listened for a month, the waves sang,
And, hanging from the steep mountains,
The castles of the knights looked
With sweet horror on them.And unearthly rays,
Confined and alone
Winked at them
A light from the ancient tower.The stars in the sky listened to them,
Walking behind the line,
And the conversation continued
Quietly among themselves.Encased in my grandfather's armor,
Warrior guard on the wall
I heard, secretly fascinated,
A distant hum, as if in a dream.I forgot myself a little in a nap,
The rumble cleared and rumbled...
He woke up with a prayer
And his patrol continued.Everything has passed, everything has taken years
You too succumbed to fate,
About the Danube and steamships
Nowadays they are on the prowl for you.No later than 1835
“I’m sitting thoughtfully and alone...”
I sit thoughtfully and alone,
On the dying fireplace
I look through tears...
With sadness I think about the past
And words in my despondency
I can't find it.The past - did it ever happen?
What is now - will it always be?..
It will pass -
It will pass, just like it all passed,
And sinks into a dark crater
Year after year.Year after year, century after century...
Why is the man indignant?
This earthly grain!..
It fades quickly, quickly - so,
But with a new summer, a new cereal
And a different leaf.And again everything that is will be
And the roses will bloom again,
And thorns too...
But you, my poor, pale color,
There is no rebirth for you,
You won't bloom!You were torn off by my hand,
With what bliss and longing,
God knows!..
Stay on my chest
Until love froze in her
Last breath.No later than 1835
“No, my passion for you...”
No, my passion for you
I can’t hide it, Mother Earth!
Spirits of ethereal voluptuousness,
Your faithful son, I do not thirst.
What is the joy of paradise before you,
It's time for love, it's time for spring,
Blooming bliss of May,
Ruddy light, golden dreams?..All day, in deep inactivity,
Spring, warm air to drink,
In the sky clear and high
Sometimes the clouds follow;
Wandering around idle and without purpose
And inadvertently, on the fly,
Find the fresh spirit of chenille 13
Chenille- lilac.
Or for a bright dream...No later than 1835
“How sweetly the dark green garden slumbers...”
How sweetly the dark green garden slumbers,
Embraced by the blue bliss of the night,
Through the apple trees, whitened with flowers,
How sweetly the golden month shines!..Mysteriously, like on the first day of creation,
In the bottomless sky the starry host burns,
Exclamations are heard from distant music,
The neighboring key speaks louder...A curtain fell on the world of day;
Movement has become exhausted, labor has fallen asleep...
Above the sleeping city, as in the tops of the forest,
A wonderful, nightly rumble woke up...Where does it come from, this incomprehensible hum?..
Or mortal thoughts freed by sleep,
The world is incorporeal, audible but invisible,
Now swarming in the chaos of the night?..No later than 1835
"The gray shadows mixed..."
The gray shadows mixed,
The color faded, the sound fell asleep -
Life and movement resolved
Into the unsteady twilight, into the distant rumble.
Moth flight invisible
Heard in the night air...
An hour of unspeakable melancholy!..
Everything is in me, and I am in everything!..Quiet dusk, sleepy dusk,
Lean into the depths of my soul,
Quiet, languid, fragrant,
Fill it all up and quiet it down.
Feelings are the haze of self-forgetfulness
Fill it over the edge!..
Give me a taste of destruction
Mix with the slumbering world!No later than 1835
“What a wild gorge!..”
“The kite rose from the clearing...”
FOUNTAIN
Look like a living cloud
The shining fountain swirls;
How it burns, how it fragments
There's damp smoke in the sun.
Raising his beam to the sky, he
Touched the treasured heights -
And again with fire-colored dust
Condemned to fall to the ground.About mortal thought water cannon,
O inexhaustible water cannon!
What an incomprehensible law
Does it urge you, does it bother you?
How greedily you strive for the sky!..
But the hand is invisible and fatal,
Your stubborn beam refracts,
Throws down in splashes from a height.No later than April 1836
“It’s not for nothing that winter is angry...”
No wonder winter is angry,
Her time has passed -
Spring is knocking on the window
And he drives him out of the yard.And everything started to fuss,
Everything forces Winter to get out -
And larks in the sky
The ringing bell has already been raised.Winter is still busy
And he grumbles about Spring.
She laughs in her eyes
And it just makes more noise...The evil witch went crazy
And, capturing the snow,
She let me in, running away,
To a beautiful child...Spring and grief are not enough:
Washed in the snow
And only became blusher
Against the enemy.No later than April 1836
Autograph of the poem “Winter is angry for a reason.
“The soul would like to be a star...”
The soul would like to be a star,
But not when from the midnight sky
These lights are like living eyes,
They look at the sleepy earthly world, -But during the day, when, hidden like smoke
scorching sun rays,
They, like deities, burn brighter
In the ether, pure and invisible.No later than April 1836
"Bright snow shone in the valley..."
Bright snow shone in the valley, -
The snow melted and went away;
Spring grain glitters in the valley, -
The grain will wither and go away.But which century turns white
There, on the snowy heights?
And the dawn still sows
The roses are fresh on them!..No later than April 1836
Watercolor by I. Rechberg, 1838
“Not what you think, nature...”
Not what you think, nature:
Not a cast, not a soulless face -
She has a soul, she has freedom,
It has love, it has language...…………
…………
…………
…………You see the leaf and color on the tree:
Or did the gardener glue them?
Or the fetus is ripening in the womb
The play of external, alien forces?..…………
…………
…………
…………They don't see or hear
They live in this world as if in the dark,
For them, even the suns, you know, do not breathe
And there is no life in the sea waves.The rays did not descend into their souls,
Spring did not bloom in their chests,
The forests didn't speak in front of them
And the night in the stars was silent!And in unearthly tongues,
Wavering rivers and forests,
I didn’t consult with them at night
There is a thunderstorm in a friendly conversation!It's not their fault: understand, if possible,
Organa life of the deaf and dumb!
Alas, the souls in it will not disturb
And the voice of the mother herself!No later than April 1836
“The earth still looks sad...”
The earth still looks sad,
And the air already breathes in spring,
And the dead stalk in the field sways,
And the oil branches move.
Nature hasn't woken up yet,
But through the thinning sleep
She heard spring
And she involuntarily smiled...Soul, soul, you slept too...
But why do you suddenly care?
Your dream caresses and kisses
And gilds your dreams?..
Blocks of snow glisten and melt,
The azure glitters, the blood plays...
Or is it spring bliss?..
Or is it female love?..No later than April 1836
“And there is no feeling in your eyes...”
And there is no feeling in your eyes,
And there is no truth in your speeches,
And there is no soul in you.Take courage, heart, to the end:
And there is no creator in creation!
And there is no point in praying!No later than April 1836
Tyutchev is absorbed in his great love for Ernestine. And when official duties and a sense of family duty nevertheless return the poet in love to the poor, boring land, he languishes, gets irritated and is so desperately sad that his wife thinks that “Theodore” is close to madness. However, the sensitive Eleanor soon realized that her husband’s madness was the madness of passion, and not at all hereditary hypochondria. Eleanor did not know a word of Russian and could not appreciate her husband’s Russian poetry, otherwise she would probably have remembered his translation from Shakespeare, made at the beginning of their marriage, in the late 20s:
Lovers, madmen and poets
Merged from one imagination!..
Ernestine von Dörnber was a woman with principles; after each meeting, lovers, on her initiative, “parted forever.” So that in a few months, at the desperate insistence of Tyutchev, they would meet again... Eleanor, who at first had decided that Theodore was having another amorous fantasy, became seriously worried. In the spring of 1836, in front of the whole of Munich, she ran out of the house into a crowded street and tried to commit suicide. Ernestina, frightened and guilty, forbade Fyodor Ivanovich to seek meetings.
Ern. F. Tyutcheva.
Lithograph by G. Bodmer from a portrait by J. Stieler. 1830s.
“I love your eyes, my friend...”
I love your eyes, my friend 14
Addressed to Ernestine von Dörnberg.,
With their fiery-wonderful play,
When you suddenly lift them up
And, like lightning from heaven,
Take a quick look around the whole circle...But there is a stronger charm:
Eyes downcast
In moments of passionate kissing,
And through lowered eyelashes
A gloomy, dim fire of desire.No later than April 1836
“Yesterday, in enchanted dreams...”
Yesterday, in the dreams of the enchanted 15
Addressed to Ernestine von Dörnberg.,
Happy last month's ray
On the eyelids, languidly illuminated,
You fell asleep late.Silence has subsided around you,
And the shadow frowned darker,
And the chest breathes evenly
It flowed more audibly in the air.But through the air curtain of the windows
The darkness of the night did not last long,
And your fluttering sleepy curl
Played with an invisible dream.Here it is quietly, quietly,
As if carried by the wind,
Smoky-light, hazy-lily
Suddenly something fluttered out the window.It ran unseen
On the dark dawning carpets,
Here, grabbing the blanket,
It began to climb along the edges, -Here, like a snake wriggling,
It climbed onto the bed,
Here, like a fluttering ribbon,
Between the canopies developed...Suddenly with a vibrant radiance
Having touched the young Perseus,
With a rosy, loud exclamation
Revealed the silk of your eyelashes!No later than April 1836
«…»
From edge to edge, from city to city 16
Apparently dedicated to Ernestine von Dörnberg.
Fate sweeps people around like a whirlwind,
And whether you are happy or not,
What does she need?.. Forward, forward!The wind brought us a familiar sound:
My last forgiveness to love...
There are many, many tears behind us,
Fog, obscurity ahead!.."Oh, look around, oh, wait,
Where to run, why run?..
Love is left behind you
Where in the world can you find the best?Love is left behind you
In tears, with despair in my chest...
Oh, have pity on your melancholy,
Spare your bliss!The bliss of so many, so many days
Bring it to your memory...
Everything dear to your soul
You are leaving on the way!..”This is not the time to call out the shadows:
And this is such a gloomy hour.
The image of the deceased is all the more terrible,
What was dearer to us in life.From edge to edge, from city to city
A mighty whirlwind sweeps people away,
And whether you are happy or not,
He won’t ask... Forward, forward!
"I remember the golden time..."
I remember the golden time 17
Dedicated to Baroness Amalia Krüdener, who, by her second husband, is Countess Adlerberg.,
I remember the dear land to my heart.
The day was getting dark; there were two of us;
Below, in the shadows, the Danube roared.And on the hill, where, turning white,
The ruins of the castle look into the distance,
There you stood, young fairy,
Leaning on mossy granite.Touching baby's foot
A century-old pile of rubble;
And the sun hesitated, saying goodbye
With the hill and the castle and you.And the quiet wind passes by
Played with your clothes
And from the wild apple trees, color after color
There was light on the young shoulders.You looked carefree into the distance...
The edge of the sky was smoky in the rays;
The day was dying out; sang more sonorously
A river with darkened banks.And you with carefree joy
Happy day spent;
And sweet is fleeting life
A shadow flew over us.No earlier than 1834 – no later than April 1836
The poem “I remember the golden time...” is dedicated to Amalia von Krüdener. However, at that “golden time”, when the eighteen-year-old diplomat, who had just arrived in Munich, and fourteen-year-old Amalia met, she was not at all the victorious beauty that she would become a few years later. The illegitimate daughter of the German aristocrat Count Maximilian Lerchenfeld and Princess Thurn-und-Taxis (nee Princess of Mecklenburg-Strelitz), she in her adolescence, although in fact she was the cousin of the Russian Empress Alexandra Feodorovna, the wife of Nicholas I, lived in modest poverty and bore the simple surname Sternfeld from Darmstadt. Only in 1823, through the efforts of her half-brother, Amalia was allowed to be called Countess Lerchenfeld, although without the right to a coat of arms and genealogy. Fyodor Tyutchev, as usual, fell passionately in love, but Amalia was also touched, the young people even exchanged neck chains. The young master's servant grumbled: Fedenka received a silk cord in exchange for an antique gold chain - the illegitimate girl had no other jewelry... Soon the young diplomat went on vacation to Russia, and when he returned, Amalia was already Baroness von Krudener. She did not love her husband, but this not very pleasant circumstance for a seventeen-year-old beauty was apparently compensated by a crowd of admirers and lovers, including, by the way, the first persons of the empire - Nikolai himself, and the chief of his blue gendarmes, Count Benckendorff...
Having been widowed, the baroness married again, this time out of mutual love: her husband, Governor-General of Finland Nikolai Adlerberg, was eleven years younger than his forty-seven-year-old wife. Nature gifted Amalia Krüdener-Adlerberg not only with amazing ageless beauty, but also with a grateful, long memory of her heart. She secretly, without advertising her actions and motives, spent her entire life helping Tyutchev obtain and retain relatively lucrative jobs, although she knew very well that he was no diplomat, a sluggish official, and a censor too lenient... She even returned the kiss promised during the exchange of baptismal neck chains ... Without an invitation she came to the dying Tyutchev. The shocked poet described this visit in a letter to his daughter:
“Yesterday I experienced a moment of burning excitement as a result of my meeting with Countess Adlerberg, my good Amalie Krudener, who wished to see me for the last time in this world and came to bid me farewell. In her face, the past of my best years came to give me a farewell kiss.”
29th JANUARY 1837
From whose hand is the deadly lead
Did you tear the poet's heart?
Who is this divine phial
Destroyed like a meager vessel?
Whether he's right or wrong
Before our earthly truth,
Forever he has the highest hand
IN "regicides" branded.But you, in the timeless darkness
Suddenly absorbed from the light,
Peace, peace to you, O shadow of the poet,
Blessed peace to your ashes!..
In spite of human vanity
Great and holy was your lot!..
You were the living organ of the gods,
But with blood in his veins... sultry blood.And I sow with noble blood
You quenched the thirst for honor -
And the overshadowed one fell asleep
Banner of the people's sorrow.
Let Him judge your enmity,
Who hears the blood shed...
You are like my first love,
The heart will not forget Russia!..Petersburg
1st DECEMBER 1837
This is how we were destined to be
Say the last thing I'm sorry...
Forgive everything that the heart lived with,
What, having killed your life, incinerated it
In your tormented chest!..Sorry... After many, many years
You will remember with a shudder
This land, this shore with its midday
shine,
Where is the eternal shine and long lasting color,
Where the late, pale roses breathe
The December air is warm.Genoa
Daguerreotype. Petersburg,<1848–1849>
ITALIAN VILLA 18
Villa ( italian.). – Ed.
And saying goodbye to everyday anxiety,
And shielded by a cypress grove, -
Blessed shadow, Elysian shadow,
She fell asleep at a good hour.And now, two centuries ago or more,
Protected by a magical dream,
In your blooming vale,
She surrendered to the will of heaven.But the sky here is so kind to the earth!..
And many years and warm southern winters
A half-asleep air blew over her,
Without touching her with his wing.The fountain is still babbling in the corner,
There's a breeze blowing through the ceiling,
And the swallow flies in and chirps...
And she sleeps... and her sleep is deep!..And we walked in... everything was so calm!
Everything has been so peaceful and dark for centuries!..
The fountain gurgled... Still and harmonious
A nearby cypress tree looked out the window...................................
Suddenly everything became confused: convulsive trembling
He ran through the cypress branches, -
The fountain fell silent - and some wonderful babble,
As if in a dream, he whispered indistinctly.What is this, friend? Or an evil life is not in vain,
That life, alas! - what was flowing in us then,
That evil life, with its rebellious heat,
Have you crossed the treasured threshold?December 1837
Genoa
SCALD'S HARP
O skald's harp! How long have you been sleeping
In the shadows, in the dust of a forgotten corner;
But only the moon, enchanting the darkness,
The azure light flashed in your corner,
Suddenly a wonderful ringing began to vibrate in the string
Like the delirium of a soul disturbed in a dream.What kind of life did he breathe on you?
Or did he remember the old days for you -
Like voluptuous maidens here at night
The long-past chant echoed,
Or in these blooming and offering gardens
Did an invisible step slide across their light feet?April 21, 1834
“I’m a Lutheran and I love worship...”
I am a Lutheran and love worship.
Their ritual is strict, important and simple -
These bare walls, this empty temple
I understand the high teaching.Don't you see? Getting ready for the road,
This is the last time you will have faith:
She hasn't crossed the threshold yet,
But her house is already empty and bare, -She hasn't crossed the threshold yet,
The door hasn't closed behind her yet...
But the hour has come, it has struck... Pray to God,
The last time you pray is now.September 16, 1834
“What are you howling about, night wind?..”
What are you howling about, night wind?
Why are you complaining so madly?..
What does your strange voice mean?
Either dully plaintive or noisy?
In a language understandable to the heart
You talk about incomprehensible torment -
And you dig and explode in it
Sometimes frantic sounds!..Oh, don’t sing these scary songs
About ancient chaos, about my dear!
How greedily the world of the soul is at night
Hears the story of his beloved!
It tears from a mortal breast,
He longs to merge with the infinite!..
Oh, don’t wake up sleeping storms -
Chaos is stirring beneath them!..No later than 1835
“The stream has thickened and is dimming...”
The stream has thickened and dimmed,
And hides under solid ice,
And the color fades and the sound goes numb
In an icy daze, -
Only life immortal key
The omnipotent cold cannot bind:
It keeps pouring - and, murmuring,
The dead silence is disturbing.So in the orphaned chest,
Killed by the cold of existence,
Joyful youth does not flow,
The frisky stream does not shine, -
But under the icy crust
There is still life, there is still murmur -
And sometimes you can hear clearly
The key is a mysterious whisper.No later than 1835
“And the coffin has already been lowered into the grave...”
And the coffin has already been lowered into the grave,
And everything crowded around...
They push, they breathe through force,
A pernicious spirit buries the chest...And over the open grave,
At the head, where the coffin stands,
Learned pastor, dignified,
The funeral oration reads...Broadcasts the frailty of man,
The Fall, the blood of Christ...
And smart, decent speech
The crowd is variously busy...And the sky is so imperishable and pure,
So limitless above the earth...
And the birds soar loudly
In the abyss of air, blue...No later than 1835
“The East was turning white. The rook was rolling..."
The East turned white. The rook was rolling
The sail sounded cheerful, -
Like an overturned sky
The sea trembled beneath us...The East is red. She prayed
Throwing back the veil from my forehead,
A prayer breathed on my lips,
The sky rejoiced in my eyes...The East flared up. She bowed down
Shiny, drooping neck, -
And on infant cheeks
Drops of fire streamed...No later than 1835
“Like a bird, early dawn...”
Like a bird, early dawn
The world, awakening, perked up...
Ah, just one chapter of mine
The blessed dream did not touch!
Even though the morning freshness blows
In my disheveled hair,
I can feel it weighing on me
Yesterday's heat, yesterday's ashes!..Oh, how piercing and wild,
How hateful to me
This noise, movement, talking, screams
Have a nice, fiery day!..
Oh, how crimson its rays are,
How they burn my eyes!..
O night, night, where are your covers,
Your quiet darkness and dew!..Fragments of old generations,
You who have outlived your age!
Like your complaints, your penalties
Wrong righteous reproach!
How sad a half-asleep shadow is,
With exhaustion in the bones,
Towards the sun and movement
To wander after a new tribe!..No later than 1835
"Where the mountains are, running away..."
Where the mountains are, running away,
The distances stretch into the light,
The notorious Danube
Eternal streams flow...There, they say, in the old days,
On azure nights,
Fairies danced in circles
Under water and across the waters;I listened for a month, the waves sang,
And, hanging from the steep mountains,
The castles of the knights looked
With sweet horror on them.And unearthly rays,
Confined and alone
Winked at them
A light from the ancient tower.The stars in the sky listened to them,
Walking behind the line,
And the conversation continued
Quietly among themselves.Encased in my grandfather's armor,
Warrior guard on the wall
I heard, secretly fascinated,
A distant hum, as if in a dream.I forgot myself a little in a nap,
The rumble cleared and rumbled...
He woke up with a prayer
And his patrol continued.Everything has passed, everything has taken years
You too succumbed to fate,
About the Danube and steamships
Nowadays they are on the prowl for you.No later than 1835
“I’m sitting thoughtfully and alone...”
I sit thoughtfully and alone,
On the dying fireplace
I look through tears...
With sadness I think about the past
And words in my despondency
I can't find it.The past - did it ever happen?
What is now - will it always be?..
It will pass -
It will pass, just like it all passed,
And sinks into a dark crater
Year after year.Year after year, century after century...
Why is the man indignant?
This earthly grain!..
It fades quickly, quickly - so,
But with a new summer, a new cereal
And a different leaf.And again everything that is will be
And the roses will bloom again,
And thorns too...
But you, my poor, pale color,
There is no rebirth for you,
You won't bloom!You were torn off by my hand,
With what bliss and longing,
God knows!..
Stay on my chest
Until love froze in her
Last breath.No later than 1835
“No, my passion for you...”
No, my passion for you
I can’t hide it, Mother Earth!
Spirits of ethereal voluptuousness,
Your faithful son, I do not thirst.
What is the joy of paradise before you,
It's time for love, it's time for spring,
Blooming bliss of May,
Ruddy light, golden dreams?..All day, in deep inactivity,
Spring, warm air to drink,
In the sky clear and high
Sometimes the clouds follow;
Wandering around idle and without purpose
And inadvertently, on the fly,
Find the fresh spirit of chenille
Or for a bright dream...No later than 1835
“How sweetly the dark green garden slumbers...”
How sweetly the dark green garden slumbers,
Embraced by the blue bliss of the night,
Through the apple trees, whitened with flowers,
How sweetly the golden month shines!..Mysteriously, like on the first day of creation,
In the bottomless sky the starry host burns,
Exclamations are heard from distant music,
The neighboring key speaks louder...A curtain fell on the world of day;
Movement has become exhausted, labor has fallen asleep...
Above the sleeping city, as in the tops of the forest,
A wonderful, nightly rumble woke up...Where does it come from, this incomprehensible hum?..
Or mortal thoughts freed by sleep,
The world is incorporeal, audible but invisible,
Now swarming in the chaos of the night?..No later than 1835
"The gray shadows mixed..."
The gray shadows mixed,
The color faded, the sound fell asleep -
Life and movement resolved
Into the unsteady twilight, into the distant rumble.
Moth flight invisible
Heard in the night air...
An hour of unspeakable melancholy!..
Everything is in me, and I am in everything!..Quiet dusk, sleepy dusk,
Lean into the depths of my soul,
Quiet, languid, fragrant,
Fill it all up and quiet it down.
Feelings are the haze of self-forgetfulness
Fill it over the edge!..
Give me a taste of destruction
Mix with the slumbering world!No later than 1835
