Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

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

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

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...

What's friendship
The hangover's faction,
The gratis talk of outrage,
Exchange by vanity, inaction,

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

Stanzas from
Our Northern Winter's fickle Summer,
Than Southern Winter scarce more bland--Is undeniably
On fleeting footsteps from the land

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

I still recall the wondrous
When you appeared before my eyes,
Just like a fleeting apparition,
Just like pure beauty's distillation

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

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

Where the sea forever
Over lonely cliff and dune,
Where sweet twilight's vapor
In a warmer-glowing moon,

She substituted, by a chance,
For empty "you" — the gentle "thou";
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound

The chain of golden days and
Is still your heritage from Deity,
And, still, the languid maidens’
Are turned to you as well intently

The storm wind covers the
Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,
Now it howls like a wolf,
Now it is crying, like a lost child,

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,

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