Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

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Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was a Russian poet, playwright, and novelist of the Romantic era who is considered by many to be the greatest Russian poet and the founder of modern Russian literature.
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If I walk the noisy streets,
Or enter a many thronged church,
Or sit among the wild young generation,
I give way to my thoughts
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Where the sea forever
Over lonely cliff and dune,
Where sweet twilight's vapor
In a warmer-glowing moon,
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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
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Beyond compare the monument I have erected,
And to this spirit column well-worn the people's path,--Its head defiant will out-soar that famous pillar  The Emperor Alexander hath
I shall not vanish wholly,--No
but young
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The chain of golden days and
Is still your heritage from Deity,
And, still, the languid maidens’
Are turned to you as well intently
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What's friendship
The hangover's faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,
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I watch Inesilla  Thy window beneath,
Deep slumbers the villa  In night's dusky sheath
Enamoured I linger,  Close mantled, for thee--With sword and with guitar,  O look once on me
Art sleeping
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Day's rain is done
The rainy mist of
Spreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing,
And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing,  The moon comes up with hidden light
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She substituted, by a chance,
For empty "you" — the gentle "thou";
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound
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Stanzas from
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland--Is undeniably
On fleeting footsteps from the land
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I still recall the wondrous
When you appeared before my eyes,
Just like a fleeting apparition,
Just like pure beauty's distillation
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The storm wind covers the
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,
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Longing for spiritual springs,
I dragged myself through desert sands…An angel with three pairs of
Arrived to me at cross of lands;
With fingers so light and
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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 yo...
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With the hostile camp in skirmish    Our men once were changing shot,
Pranced the Delibash his charger  'Fore our ranks of Cossacks hot
Trifle not with free-born Cossacks
Nor too o'er foolhardy be
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In my youth's years, she loved me,
I am sure
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my
And harked to me with smile — without speed,
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