Poems (not by me)

beautiful surf

From EUGENE ONEGIN (Chapter 1): Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin (1799 – 1837)


I see the surf, the storm-rack flying…
Oh, how I wanted to compete
With tumultuous breakers dying
In adoration at her feet!
Together with those waves – how much
O wished to kiss what they could touch!
No – even when my youth would burn
Its fiercest – never did I yearn
With such a torturing sensation
To kiss the lips of numphs, the rose
That on the cheek of beauty glows
Or breasts in mellow palpitation –
No, never did a passion roll
Such billows in my bursting soul.

yellow meadow

A Brief Manual of Rhetoric: Mihail Vasilievich Lomonosov (1711 – 1765)

From Golden fields descends Aurora
On us with crimson hand to strew
Her brilliants, sparks, festoons of Flora,
To give the fields a rosy hue;
To hide the dark with her bright cloak
And birds to mellow songs provoke.
Most pure, the ray of blessings thine
Doth ornament my zealous line;
Grows clearer in thy purple’s fire
The tone of my most humble lyre.

stormy weather

Lord Ullin’s Daughter: Vasiliy Andreevich Zhukovski (1783 – 1852)

A chieftain to the Highlands bound
cries: Boatman, do not tarry,
and i’ll give thee a silver pound
to row us o’er the ferry
Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle
this dark and stormy water?
Oh, i’m the chief of Ullva’s Isle
and this Lord Ullin’s daughter.
And fast before her father’s men
three days we’ve fled together
for should they find us in the glen
my blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride
Should they our steps discover
then who will cheer my bonny bride
when they’ve slain her lover?
Oh haste thee, haste! the lady cries.
Though tempests round us gather,
I’ll face the anger of the skies
but not an angry father!
Out spake the hardy Highland wight:
I’ll go, my chief, I’m ready.
It is not for your silver bright,
but for your winsome lady.
And by my word, the bonny bird
in danger shall not tarry
for though the waves are raging white
I’ll row you o’er the ferry.
The boat had left a stormy land
a stormy sea before her
when, ah, too strong for human hand
the tempests gathered o’er her.
And still they rowed amidst the roar
of waters fast prevailing.
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore
his wrath was changed to wailing.
For sore dismayed, through rain and shade
his child he did discover:
one lovely hand was stretched for aid
and one was round her lover.
Come back, come back, he cries in grief
across this angry water
and I’ll forgive your Highland chiefm
my daughter, oh, my daughter!
‘Twas vain, the high waves lashed the shore
return or aid preventing.
The waters wild went o’er his child
and he was left lamenting.
(That one is my favourite)

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