关于普希金诗集(普希金最著名的诗分享)

亚历山大普希金(亚历山大·谢尔盖耶维奇·普希金,俄语:Александр Сергеевич Пушкин,1799年6月6日-1837年2月10日),俄国诗人、剧作家、小说家、文学批评家和理论家、历史学家、政论家,俄国浪漫主义的杰出代表,俄国现实主义文学的奠基人,是十九世纪前期文学领域中最具声望的人物之一,被尊称为“俄国诗歌的太阳”、“俄国文学之父”,现代标准俄语的创始人。

主要作品有诗歌《自由颂》《致大海》《致恰达耶夫》等,诗体小说《叶甫盖尼·奥涅金》,短篇小说《黑桃皇后》,长篇小说《上尉的女儿》等。

致大海

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

再见吧,自由的原素!最后一次了,在我眼前你的蓝色的浪头翻滚起伏,你的骄傲的美闪烁壮观。仿佛友人的忧郁的絮语,仿佛他别离一刻的招呼,最后一次了,我听着你的喧声呼唤,你的沉郁的吐诉。我全心渴望的国度啊,大海!多么常常地,在你的岸上我静静地,迷惘地徘徊,苦思着我那珍爱的愿望。啊,我多么爱听你的回声,那喑哑的声音,那深渊之歌,我爱听你黄昏时分的幽静,和你任性的脾气的发作!渔人的渺小的帆凭着你的喜怒无常的保护在两齿之间大胆地滑过,但你若汹涌起来,无法克服,成群的渔船就会覆没。直到现在,我还不能离开这令我厌烦的凝固的石岸,我还没有热烈地拥抱你,大海!也没有让我的诗情的波澜随着你的山脊跑开!你在期待,呼唤……我却被缚住,我的心突然想要挣脱开,是更强烈的感情把我迷住,于是我在岸边留下来……有什么可顾惜的?而今哪里能使我奔上坦荡的途径?在你的荒凉中,只有一件东西也许还激动我的心灵。一面峭壁,一座光荣的坟墓……那里,种种伟大的回忆已在寒冷的梦里沉没,啊,是拿破仑熄灭在那里。他已经在苦恼里长眠。紧随着他,另一个天才象风暴之间驰过我们面前,啊,我们心灵的另一个主宰。他去了,使自由在悲泣中!他把自己的桂 冠留给世上。喧腾吧,为险恶的天时而汹涌,噢,大海!他曾经为你歌唱。他是由你的精气塑成的,海啊,他是你的形象的反映;他象你似的深沉、有力、阴郁,他也倔强得和你一样。世界空虚了……哦,海洋,现在你还能把我带到哪里?到处,人们的命运都是一样:哪里有幸福,必有教育或暴君看守得非常严密。再见吧,大海!你壮观的美色将永远不会被我遗忘;我将久久地,久久地听着你在黄昏时分的轰响。心里充满了你,我将要把你的山岩,你的海湾,你的光和影,你的浪花的喋喋,带到森林,带到寂静的荒原。

假如生活欺骗了你

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

假如生活欺骗了你假如生活欺骗了你,不要忧郁,也不要愤慨!不顺心时暂且克制自己,相信吧,快乐之日就会到来。我们的心儿憧憬着未来,现今总是令人悲哀一切都是暂时的,转瞬即逝,而那逝去的将变得可爱。乌兰汗译

我曾经爱过你

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

我曾经爱过你:爱情,也许在我的心灵里还没有完全消亡,但愿它不会再打扰你,我也不想再使你难过悲伤。我曾经默默无语、毫无指望地爱过你,我既忍受着羞怯,又忍受着嫉妒的折磨,我曾经那样真诚、那样温柔地爱过你,愿上帝保佑你找到另一人,如我这般爱你。戈宝权译

风暴

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

你看见那个站在峭岩上的少女吗?穿着白色的衣裳,高临在波涛之上,就是当大海在风暴的烟雾中喧腾,和海岸在嬉戏,就是当雷电的金光时时刻刻用赤红的光芒照亮了她,而风在打击和吹拂她飘荡着的轻纱的时光?在风暴的烟雾中的大海,在闪光中失掉蔚蓝的天空,都是美丽的;但是相信我吧:就是那个站在峭岩上的少女,她比波浪、天空和风暴,还更漂亮。1825戈宝权译 

在自己祖国的蓝天下

[俄罗斯] 普希金

在自己祖国的蓝天下她已经憔悴,已经枯萎……终于凋谢了,也许正有一个年轻的幽灵在我头上旋飞;但我们却有个难以逾越的界限。我徒然地激发自己的情感:从冷漠的唇边传出了她死的讯息,我也冷漠地听了就完。这就是我用火热的心爱过的人,我爱得那么热烈,那么深沉,那么温柔,又那么心头郁郁难平,那么疯狂,又那么苦痛!痛苦在哪儿,爱情在哪儿?在我的心里,为那个可怜的轻信的灵魂,为那些一去不返的岁月的甜蜜记忆,我既没有流泪,也没有受责备。1826魏荒弩译

是时候啦

[俄罗斯] 普希金

是时候啦,我的朋友,是时候啦!心儿要求安静--日子一天天地飞逝过去,每一小时都带走了一部分生命,而我和你两个人还想长久地生活下去,但也可能--就突然死亡,在世界上没有幸福,但却有安静和志向。我早就对那个令人羡慕的命运抱着幻想--我这个疲倦的奴隶啊,早就打算逃避到那能从事写作和享受纯洁的安乐的遥远的地方!1834戈宝权译

致恰阿达耶夫

[俄罗斯] 普希金

爱情、希望、默默的荣誉——哄骗给我们的喜悦短暂,少年时代的戏耍已经消逝,如同晨雾,如同梦幻;可是一种愿望还在胸中激荡,我们的心焦灼不安,我们经受着宿命势力的重压,时刻听候着祖国的召唤。我们忍受着期待的煎熬切盼那神圣的自由时刻来到,正象风华正茂的恋人等待忠实的幽会时分。趁胸中燃烧着自由之火,趁心灵向往着自由之歌,我的朋友,让我们用满腔壮丽的激情报效祖国!同志啊,请相信:空中会升起一颗迷人的幸福之星,俄罗斯会从睡梦中惊醒,并将在专制制度的废墟上铭刻下我们的姓名!1818

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纪念碑Exegi monumentum

[俄罗斯] 普希金

我给自己建起了一座非手造的纪念碑,人民走向那里的小径永远不会荒芜,它将自己坚定不屈的头颅高高昂起,高过亚历山大的石柱。不,我绝不会死去,心活在神圣的竖琴中,它将比我的骨灰活得更久,永不消亡,只要在这个月照的世界上还有一个诗人,我的名声就会传扬。整个伟大的俄罗斯都会听到我的传闻,各种各样的语言都会呼唤我的姓名,无论骄傲的斯拉夫人的子孙,还是芬兰人、山野的通古斯人、卡尔梅克人。我将长时期地受到人民的尊敬和爱戴:因为我用竖琴唤起了人民善良的感情,因为我歌颂过自由,在我的残酷的时代,我还曾为死者呼吁同情。啊,我的缪斯,你要听从上天的吩咐,既不怕受人欺侮,也不希求什么桂冠,什么诽谤,什么赞扬,一概视若粪土,也不必理睬那些笨蛋。1836

致克恩

[俄罗斯] 普希金

我记得那美妙的瞬间:你就在我的眼前降临,如同昙花一现的梦幻,如同纯真之美的化身。我为绝望的悲痛所折磨,我因纷乱的忙碌而不安,一个温柔的声音总响在耳边,妩媚的身影总在我梦中盘旋。岁月流逝。一阵阵迷离的冲动象风暴把往日的幻想吹散,我忘却了你那温柔的声音,也忘却了你天仙般的容颜。在荒凉的乡间,在囚禁的黑暗中,我的时光在静静地延伸,没有崇敬的神明,没有灵感,没有泪水,没有生命,没有爱情。我的心终于重又觉醒,你又在我眼前降临,如同昙花一现的梦幻,如同纯真之美的化身心儿在狂喜中萌动,一切又为它萌生:有崇敬的神明,有灵感,有泪水,有生命、也有爱情。1825

我就要沉默了

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

我就要沉默了!然而,假如这琴弦能在我忧伤时报我以低回的歌声;假如有默默聆听我的男女青年曾感叹于我的爱情的长期苦痛;假如你自己,在深深的感动之余,能将我悲哀的诗句悄悄地低吟,并且喜欢我心灵的热情的言语……假如你是爱着我……哦,亲爱的友人,请允许我以痴情怨女的圣洁之名使这竖琴的临终一曲充满柔情!……于是,等死亡的梦覆盖着我永眠,你就可以在我的墓瓮前,感伤地说:“我爱过他,是我给了他以灵感,使他有了最后的爱情,最后的歌。”1821戈宝权译

一切都已结束

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

一切都已结束,不再藕断丝连。我最后一次拥抱你的双膝,说出这令人心碎的话语,一切都已结束--回答我已听见。我不愿再把你苦追苦恋,我不愿再一次把自己欺诳;也许,往事终将被我遗忘,我此生与爱情再也无缘。你年纪轻轻,心底纯真,还会有许多人对你钟情。1824杜承南译

我的名字对你能意味什么

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

我的名字对你能意味什么?它将死去,象溅在遥远的岸上那海浪的凄凉的声音,像是夜晚的森林的回响。在这留作纪念的册页上,它留下的是死沉沉的痕迹,就仿佛墓碑上的一些花纹,记载着人们所不懂的言语。它说些什么?早就遗忘了在新鲜的骚扰和激动里,对你的心灵,它不能显示一种纯洁的、柔情的回忆。然而,在孤独而凄凉之日,你会抑郁地念出我的姓名;你会说,有人在怀念我,在世上,我还活在你的心灵……1830查良铮译 

为了怀念你

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

为了怀念你,我把一切奉献:那充满灵性的竖琴的歌声,那伤心已极的少女的泪泉,还有我那嫉妒的心的颤动。还有那明澈的情思之美,还有那荣耀的光辉、流放的黑暗,还有那复仇的念头和痛苦欲绝时在心头翻起的汹涌的梦幻。1825乌兰汗译

被你那缠绵悱恻的梦想

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[俄罗斯] 普希金

被你那缠绵悱恻的梦想随心所欲选中的人多么幸福,他的目光主宰着你,在他面前你不加掩饰地为爱情心神恍惚;然而那默默地、充满忌妒地聆听你的自白的人又多么凄楚。他心里燃烧着爱情的火焰,却低垂着那颗沉重的头颅。1828苏杭 译

《欧根·奥涅金》节选

[俄罗斯] 普希金

第一章 五十五我喜爱的是平和的日子乡间的幽静对我最适合:我的琴弦在这里才最响亮,幻想才飞扬,梦才蓬勃。我愿意尽情享受安闲,无忧无虑地在湖边游荡,望着孤寂的湖水,无所事事,这就是我最高的期望。每天早晨,我盘算着怎样消遣,要少读书,多多地睡眠,浮世的虚名任由他飘忽,我要的只是舒适和安闲;过去那些年,可不是如此我度过了幸福的日子?第二章 十八有时候,我们象溃败的兵逃到理性的旗下,寻求平静,当热情的火焰已经熄灭,我们看到已往的任性和激动的感情,都变为可笑,再没有理由接着胡闹——这时候我们往往喜欢聆听别人经历的爱情的波涛。……………………第七章 四十八…………………?呵,空虚的世界!你甚至拿不出一点有趣的愚蠢!第八章 十这样的人有福了:假如他在青年时代热情,活泼,以后随着年龄逐渐老成,他也能忍受生活的冷漠;他不再梦想那怪异的梦,却随波逐流,成为社交的能手,他在二十岁是个翩翩少年,三十岁结了婚,太太很富有,到五十岁,他的各种债务都已偿清,而且平静地把光辉的名誉,金钱,爵禄,都依次一一拿到手中,关于他,人们一直这么说:某某真是个可爱的家伙。第八章 十一然而,我们不禁沉郁的想:青春来得真是突然:我们对她不断变心,她也时时将我们欺骗;而我们最美好的愿望和新鲜的梦想,都象秋天衰败的落叶,就这么快地一一凋零了,腐蚀,不见。生活竟成了一长串饮宴横在面前,谁能够忍受?你看它就象是一场仪式,跟在一群规矩人的后头,而自己和他们之间没一点相投的兴趣和意见!查良铮 译

I Loved You

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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 trueAs may God grant you to be loved again.Translated by Genia Gurarie, 11/10/95

Friendship

[俄罗斯] 普希金

What’s friendship? The hangover’s faction,The gratis talk of outrage,Exchange by vanity, inaction,Or bitter shame of patronage.

The Prophet

[俄罗斯] 普希金

Longing for spiritual springs,I dragged myself through desert sands …An angel with three pairs of wingsArrived to me at cross of lands;With fingers so light and slimHe touched my eyes as in a dream:And opened my prophetic eyesLike 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 heightsAnd 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 specksHe put the sting of wizard snakesInto 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.’

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Imitation

[俄罗斯] 普希金

I saw the Death, and she was seatingBy quiet entrance at my own home,I saw the doors were opened in my tomb,And there, and there my hope was a-flittingI’ll die, and traces of my pastIn days of future will be never sighted,Look of my eyes will never be delightedBy dear look, in my existence last.Farewell the somber world, where, precipice above,My gloomy road was a-streaming,Where life for me was never cheering,Where I was loving, having not to love!The dazzling heavens’ azure curtain,Beloved hills, the brook’s enchanting dance,You, mourn — the inspiration’s chance,You, peaceful shades of wilderness, uncertain,And all — farewell, farewell at once.

A Magic Moment I Remember

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A magic moment I remember:I raised my eyes and you were there,A fleeting vision, the quintessenceOf all that’s beautiful and rareI pray to mute despair and anguish,To vain the pursuits world esteems,Long did I hear your soothing accents,Long did your features haunt my dreams.Time passed. A rebel storm-blast scatteredThe reveries that once were mineAnd I forgot your soothing accents,Your features gracefully pine.In dark days of enforced retirementI gazed upon grey skies aboveWith no ideals to inspire meNo one to cry for, live for, love.Then came a moment of reinessance,I looked up – you again are thereA fleeting vision, the quintessenceOf all that’s beautiful and rare

To —-

[俄罗斯] 普希金

I remember the marvellous momentyou appeared before me,like a transient vision,like pure beauty’s spirit.Lost in hopeless sadness,lost in the loud world’s turmoil,I heard your voice’s echo,and often dreamed your features.Years passed. The storm winds scattered,with turbulent gusts, that dreaming.I forgot your voice, its tenderness.I forgot your lovely face.Remote in my darkened exile,the days dragged by so slowly,without grace, without inspiration,without life, without tears, without love.Then my spirit wokeand you, you appeared again,like a transient vision,like pure beauty’s spirit.And my heart beats with delight,and ecstasy, inside me,and grace and inspiration,and tears, and life, and love.

A Little Bird

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In alien lands I keep the bodyOf ancient native rites and things:I gladly free a little birdieAt celebration of the spring.I’m now free for consolation,And thankful to almighty Lord:At least, to one of his creationsI’ve given freedom in this world!

Muse

[俄罗斯] 普希金

In my youth’s years, she loved me, I am sure.The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenureAnd harked to me with smile — without speed,Along the ringing holes of the reed,I got to play with my non-artful fingersThe peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.>From morn till night in oaks’ silent shadeI diligently harked to the mysterious virgin;Rewarding me, by chance, for any good decision,And taking locks aside of the enchanting face,She sometimes took from me the flute, such commonplace.The reed became alive in consecrated breathingAnd filled the heart with holiness unceasing.

Bound For Your Distant Home

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Bound for your distant homeyou were leaving alien lands.In an hour as sad as I’ve knownI wept over your hands.My hands were numb and cold,still trying to restrainyou, whom my hurt toldnever to end this pain.But you snatched your lips awayfrom our bitterest kiss.You invoked another placethan 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 skyshines with blue radiance,where olive-tree shadows lieon 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 …….

A Wish

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The days drag on, each moment multipliesWithin my wounded heart the pain and sadnessOf an unhappy love and, dark, gives rise.To sleepless dreams, the haunting dreams of madnessBut I do not complain – instead, I weep;Tears bring me solace, comforted they leave me.My spirit, captive held by grief, a deep.And bitter rapture finds in them, believe me.Pass, life! Come, empty phantom, onward fly.And in the silent void of darkness vanish.Dear it to me my love’s unending anguish;If as I die I love, pray let me die.

Don’t Ask Me Why

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Don’t ask me why, alone in dismal thought,In times of mirth, I’m often filled with strife,And why my weary stare is so distraught,And why I don’t enjoy the dream of life;Don’t ask me why my happiness has perished,Why I don’t love the love that pleased me then,No longer can I call someone my cherished–Who once felt love will never love again;Who once felt bliss, no more will feel its essence,A moment’s happiness is all that we receive:From youth, prosperity and joyful pleasantry,All that is left is apathy and grief…

Night

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My voice, to which love lends a tenderness and yearing,Disturbs night’s dreamy calm … Pale at my bedside burning,A taper wastes away … From out my heart there surgeStift verses, streams of love, that hum and sing and merge.And, full of you, rush on, with passion overflowing.I seem to see your eyes that, in the darkness glowing,Meet mine … I see your smile … You speak to me alone:My friend, my dearest friend … I’m your’s … your own.

The Wish

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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.I don’t deplore my passing dream of life —Vanish in dark, the empty apparition!I care only for my love’s infliction,And let me die, but only die in love!

Autumn

[俄罗斯] 普希金

What doesn’t enter then my slumbering mind?-DerzhavinIOctober has arrived – the woods have tossedTheir final leaves from naked branches;A breath of autumn chill – the road begins to freeze,The stream still murmurs as it passes by the mill,The pond, however’s frozen; and my neighbor hastensto his far-flung fields with all the members of his hunt.The winter wheat will suffer from this wild fun,And baying hounds awake the slumbering groves.IIThis is my time: I am not fond of spring;The tiresome thaw, the stench, the mud – spring sickens me.The blood ferments, and yearning binds the heart and mind..With cruel winter I am better satisfied,I love the snows; when in the moonlightA sleigh ride swift and carefree with a friend.Who, warm and rosy ‘neath a sable mantle,Burns, trembles as she clasps your hand.IIIWhat fun it is, with feet in sharp steel shod,To skim the mirror of the smooth and solid streams!And how about the shining stir of winter feasts? . .But in the end you must admit that naught but snowFor half the year will even bore a bearDeep in his den. We cannot ride for ages,In sleighs with youthful nymphsOr sulk around the stove behind storm windows.IVO, summer fair! I would have loved you, too,Except for heat and dust and gnats and flies.You kill off all our mental power,Torment us; and like fields, we suffer from the drought;To take a drink, refresh ourselves somehow –We think of nothing else, and long for lady Winter,And, having bid farewell to her with pancakes and with wine,We hold a wake to honor her with ice-cream and with ice.VThe latter days of fall are often cursed,But as for me, kind reader, she is preciousIn all her quiet beauty, mellow glow.Thus might a child, disfavored in its family,Draw my regard. To tell you honestly,Of all the times of year, I cherish her alone.She’s full of worth; and I, a humble lover,Have found in her peculiar charms.VIHow can this be explained? I favor herAs you might one day find yourself attractedTo a consumptive maid. Condemned to death,The poor child languishes without complaint or anger.A smile plays upon her withering lips;She cannot sense as yet the gaping maw of death;A crimson glow still flits across her face.Today she lives, tomorrow she is gone.VIIA melancholy time! So charming to the eye!Your beauty in its parting pleases me –I love the lavish withering of nature,The gold and scarlet raiment of the woods,The crisp wind rustling o’er their threshold,The sky engulfed by tides of rippled gloom,The sun’s scarce rays, approaching frosts,And gray-haired winter threatening from afar.VIIIWhen autumn comes, I bloom anew;The Russian frost does wonders for my health;Anew I fall in love with life’s routine:Betimes I’m soothed by dreams, betimes by hunger caught;The blood flows free and easy in my heart,Abrim with passion; once again, I’m happy, young,I’m full of life – such is my organism(Excuse me for this awful prosaism)IXMy horse is brought to me; in open field,With flying mane, he carries fast his rider,And with his shining hooves he hammers out a songUpon the frozen, ringing vale, and crackling ice.But fleeting day dies out, new fire comes aliveInside the long-forgotten stove– it blazes bright,Then slowly smoulders – as I read before it,Or nourish long and heartfelt thoughts.XAnd I forget the world – in silence sweet,I’m sweetly lulled by my imagination,And poetry awakens deep inside:My heart is churned with lyric agitation,It trembles, moans, and strives, as if in sleep,To pour out in the end a free statement-And here they come – a ghostly swarm of guests,My long-lost friends, the fruits of all my dream.XIMy mind is overcome by dashing thoughts,And rhymes come running eagerly to meet them,My hand demands a pen; the pen – a sheet of paper.Another minute – and my verse will freely flow.Thus slumbers an immobile ship caught in immobile waters,But lo! – the sailors rush all of a sudden, crawlUp top, then down – sails billow, filled with wind;The massive structure moves, and cuts the waves.XIIIt sails. But whither do we sail?…

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Remembrance

[俄罗斯] 普希金

When the loud day for men who sow and reapGrows still, and on the silence of the townThe unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,The meed of the day’s labour, settle down,Then for me in the stillness of the nightThe wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,And in the idle darkness comes the biteOf all the burning serpents of remorse;Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicitiesAre swarming in my over-burdened soul,And Memory before my wakeful eyesWith 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.

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Lyric Written In 1830

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What means my name to you?…T’will dieAs does the melancholy murmurOf 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 relicOf some long dead and vanished age.What’s in my name?…Long since forgot,Erased by new, tempestuous passion,of tenderness ’twill leave you notThe 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.”

The Dream

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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.

The Upas Tree

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Deep in the desert’s misery,far in the fury of the sand,there stands the awesome Upas Treelone watchman of a lifeless land.The wilderness, a world of thirst,in wrath engendered it and filledits every root, every accursedgrey leafstalk with a sap that killed.Dissolving in the midday sunthe poison oozes through its bark,and freezing when the day is donegleams 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 sweepsaway with death upon its back.And though some roving cloud may stainwith glancing drops those leaden leaves,the dripping of a poisoned rainis all the burning sand receives.But man sent man with one proud looktowards the tree, and he was gone,the humble one, and there he tookthe poison and returned at dawn.He brought the deadly gum; with ithe brought some leaves, a withered bough,while rivulets of icy sweatran 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 sathis now unconquerable lord.The king, he soaked his arrows truein poison, and beyond the plainsdispatched those messengers and slewhis neighbors in their own domains.

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I Love Thee

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I loved thee; and perchance until this momentWithin my breast is smouldering still the fire!Yet I would spare thy pain the least renewal,Nothing shall rouse again the old desire!I loved thee with a silent desperation–Now timid, now with jealousy brought low,I loved devoutly,–with such deep devotion–Ah may God grant another love thee so!Another Translation:I loved you once: perhaps that love has yetTo die down thoroughly within my soul;But let it not dismay you any longer;I have no wish to cause you any sorrow.I loved you wordlessly, without a hope,By shyness tortured, or by jealousy.I loved you with such tenderness and candorAnd pray God grants you to be loved that way again.

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Morpheus

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Oh, Morpheus, give me joy till morningFor my forever painful love:Just blow out candles’ burningAnd let my dreams in blessing move.Let from my soul disappearThe separation’s sharp rebuke!And let me see that dear look,And let me hear voice that dear.And when will vanish dark of nightAnd you will free my eyes at leaving,Oh, if my heart would have a rightTo lose its love till dark of evening!

The Talisman

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Where the sea forever dancesOver lonely cliff and dune,Where sweet twilight’s vapor glancesIn a warmer-glowing moon,Where with the seraglio’s gracesDaylong toys the Mussulman,An enchantress ‘mid embracesHanded 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 ragingCan avail my talisman.Never will it help thee gatherTreasures of the Orient coast,Neither to thy harness tetherCaptives of the Prophet’s host;Nor in sadness will it lead theeTo a friendly bosom, norFrom this alien southland speed theeTo the native northern shore.“But whenever eyes designingCast on thee a sudden spell,In the darkness lips entwiningLove thee not, but kiss too well:Shield thee, love, from evil preying,From new heart-wounds—that it can,From forgetting, from betrayingGuards thee this my talisman.”

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To My Friends

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The chain of golden days and nightsIs still your heritage from Deity,And, still, the languid maidens’ eyesAre turned to you as well intently.So, play and sing, friends of my years!Lose very quickly passing evening,And, at your heedless joy and singing,I will be smiling through my tears.

Demon

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In bygone days when life’s array –The sweet song of the nightingaleAnd maidens’ eyes, the rustling woods –Still left a fresh impression on me,When loftiness of feeling,And freedom, glory, loveArtistic inspirationSo deeply stirred my blood,My times of hope were cast in shadeAnd pleasure dimmed by longing,For it was then an evil geniusBegan to pay me secret visits.Our meetings were quite dolorous:His smile, his glance mysterious,His venom-filled and caustic sermonsPoured frozen poison in my soul.With endless slandering remarksHe tempted Providence;He claimed that beauty’s but a dream;Felt scorn for inspiration;He had no faith in love or freedom;He looked on life with ridicule-And in the whole of natureHe did not wish to praise a single thing.

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On Count Voronstov

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One half Milord, one half in trade,One half a sage, one half a dunce,One half a crook, but here for onceThere’s every hope he’ll make the grade.

Solitude

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He’s blessed, who lives in peace, that’s distantFrom the ignorant fobs with calls,Who can provide his every instanceWith dreams, or labors, or recalls;To whom the fate sends friends in score,Who hides himself by Savior’s backFrom bashful fools, which lull and bore,And from the impudent ones, which wake.

The Night

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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 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!

Confession

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I love you – I love you, e’en as IRage at myself for this obsession,And as I make my shamed confession,Despairing at your feet I lie.I know, I know – It ill becomes me,I am too old, time to be wise …But how? … This love – it overcomes me,A sickness this in passion’s guise.When you are near I’m filled with sadness,When far, I yawn, for life’s a bore.I must pour out this love, this madness,There’s nothing that I long for more!When your shirts rustle, when, my angel,Your girlish voice I hear, when yourLight step sounds in the parlour – strangely,I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.Your frown – and I’m in pain, I languish;You smile – and joy defeats distress;My one reward for a day’s anguishComes when your, pale hand, love, I kiss.When you sit, bent over your sewing,Your eyes cast down and fine curls blowing.About your face, with tendernessI like childlike watch, my heart o’erflowingWith love, in my gaze a caress.Shall I my jealousy and yearningDescribe, my bitterness and woeWhen by yourself on some bleak morningOff on a distant walk you go,Or with another spend the eveningAnd, with him near, the piano play,Or for Opochka leave, or, grievingWeep and in silence, pass the day?Alina! Pray relent have mercy!I dare not ask for love – with allMy many sins, both great and small,I am perhaps of love unworthy!But if feigned love, if you wouldPretend, you’d easily deceive me,For happily would I, believe me,Deceive myself if but I could!

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Old Man

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I’m not that lover, filled with passion, –That youth, who left the world amazed:Alas, my spring and summer passed now,And didn’t leave a single trace.Cupid, the god of youth and love and virtue!I used to be your steadfast servant;Oh, if I could be reborn, – I’d serve youEven more passionate and fervent!

The Drowned Man

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Children running into izba,Calling father, dripping sweat:‘Daddy, daddy! come -there is aDeadman caught inside our net.’‘Fancy, fancy fabrication…’Grumbled off their weary Pa,‘Have these imps imagination!Deadman, really! ya-ha-ha…‘Well… the court may come to bother –What’ll I say before the judge?Hey you brats, go have your motherBring my coat; I better trudge…Show me, where? ‘ -‘Right there, Dad, farther! ‘On the sand where netting ropesLay spread out, the peasant fatherSaw the veritable corpse.Badly mangled, ugly, frightening,Blue and swollen on each side…Has he fished in storm and lightning,Or committed suicide?Could this be a careless drunkard,Or a mermaid-seeking monk,Or a merchandizer, conqueredBy some bandits, robbed and sunk?To the peasant, what’s it matter!Quick: he grabs the dead man’s hair,Drags his body to the water,Looks around: nobody’s there:Good… relieved of the concern heShoves his paddle at a loss,While the stiff resumes his journeyDown the stream for grave and cross.Long the dead man as one livingRocked on waves amid the foam…Surly as he watched him leaving,Soon our peasant headed home.‘Come you pups! let’s go, don’t scatter.Each of you will get his bun.But remember: just you chatter –And I’ll whip you, every one.’Dark and stormy it was turning.High the river ran in gloom.Now the torch has finished burningIn the peasant’s smoky room.Kids asleep, the wife aslumber,He lies listening to the rain…Bang! he hears a sudden comerKnocking on the window-pane.‘What the…’ -‘Let me in there, master! ‘‘Damn, you found the time to roam!Well, what is it, your disaster?Let you in? It’s dark at home,Dark and crowded… What a pest you are!Where’d I put you in my cot…’Slowly, with a lazy gesture,He lifts up the pane and – what?Through the clouds, the moon was showing…Well? the naked man was there,Down his hair the water flowing,Wide his eyes, unmoved the stare;Numb the dreadful-looking body,Arms were hanging feeble, thin;Crabs and cancers, black and bloody,Sucked into the swollen skin.As the peasant slammed the shutter(Recognized his visitant)Horror-struck he could but mutter‘Blast you! ‘ and began to pant.He was shuddering, awful chaosAll night through stirred in his brain,While the knocking shook the houseBy the gates and at the pane.People tell a dreadful rumor:Every year the peasant, say,Waiting in the worst of humorFor his visitor that day;As the rainstorm is increasing,Nightfall brings a hurricane –And the drowned man knocks, unceasing,By the gates and at the pane.Translated by: Genia Gurarie, 11/95

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Tempest

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You saw perched on a cliff a maid,Her raiment white above the breakers,When the mad sea reared up and playedIts whips of spray on coastal acresAnd 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 maidThan storms and skies and breakers crashing.

Arion

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A lot of us were on the bark:Some framed a sail for windy weather,The others strongly and togetherMoved oars. In silence sunk,Keeping a rudder, strong and clever,The skipper drove the heavy skiff;And I — with careless belief —I sang for sailors… . But the stiffWhirl smashed at once the waters’ favor…All dead — the captain and his guard! —But I, the enigmatic bard,Was thrown to the shore alone.I sing the former anthems, yet,And dry my mantle, torn and wet,In beams of sun under a stone.

The Name

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What is my name to you? ‘T will die:a wave that has but rolled to reachwith a lone splash a distant beach;or in the timbered night a cry …‘T will leave a lifeless trace amongnames on your tablets: the designof an entangled gravestone linein an unfathomable tongue.What is it then? A long-dead past,lost in the rush of madder dreams,upon your soul it will not castMnemosyne’s pure tender beams.But if some sorrow comes to you,utter my name with sighs, and tellthe silence: “Memory is true –there beats a heart wherein I dwell.”

I’Ve Lived To See Desire Vanish

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I’ve lived to see desire vanish,With hope I’ve slowly come to part,And I am left with only anguish,The fruit of emptiness at heart.Under the storms of merciless fate,My worn and withered garland lies–In sadness, lonesome, I await:How far away is my demise?Thus, conquered by a tardy frost,Through gale’s whistling and shimmer,Late, on a naked limb exposedA lonesome leaf is left to quiver!…

Eastern Song

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I think that thou wert born for this—To set the poet’s vision burning,To hold him in a trance of bliss,And by sweet words to wake his yearning:To charm him by those eyes that shine,By that strange Eastern speech of thine,And by thy feet—those tiny treasures!Ah! thou wert born for languid pleasuresAnd glowing hours of bliss pine!

A Winter Evening

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Sable clouds by tempest driven,Snowflakes whirling in the gales,Hark–it sounds like grim wolves howling,Hark–now like a child it wails!Creeping through the rustling straw thatch,Rattling on the mortared walls,Like some weary wanderer knocking–On the lowly pane it falls.Fearsome darkness fills the kitchen,Drear and lonely our retreat,Speak a word and break the silence,Dearest little Mother, sweet!Has the moaning of the tempestClosed thine eyelids wearily?Has the spinning wheel’s soft whirringHummed a cradle song to thee?Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,Thou true-souled companion dear–Let us drink! Away with sadness!Wine will fill our hearts with cheer.Sing the song how free and carelessBirds live in a distant land–Sing the song of maids at morningMeeting by the brook’s clear strand!Sable clouds by tempest driven,Snowflakes whirling in the gales,Hark–it sounds like grim wolves howling,Hark–now like a child it wails!Sweetheart of my youthful Springtime,Thou true-souled companion dear,Let us drink! Away with sadness!Wine will fill our hearts with cheer!

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May 26, 1828

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Gift haphazard, unavailing,Life, why were thou given me?Why art thou to death unfailingSentenced by dark destiny?Who in harsh despotic fashionOnce from Nothing called me out,Filled my soul with burning passionVexed and shook my mind with doubt?I can see no goal before me;Empty heart and idle mind.Life monotonously o’er meRoars, and leaves a wound behind.

Day’s Rain Is Done

[俄罗斯] 普希金

Day’s rain is done. The rainy mist of nightSpreads on the sky, leaden apparel wearing,And through the pine-trees, like a ghost appearing,The moon comes up with hidden light.All in my soul drags me to dark surrender.There, far away, rises the moon in splendour.There all the air is drunk with evening heat,There move the waters in a sumptuous heat,And overhead the azure skies…It is the hour. From high hills she has goneTo sea-shores flooding in the waves’ loud cries;There, where the holy cliffs arise,Now she sits melancholy and alone…Alone… Before her none is weeping, fretting,None, on his knees, is kissing her, forgetting;Alone… To no one’s lips is she betrayingHer shoulders, her wet lips, her snow-white bosom.No one is worthy of her heavenly love.‘Tis true?… Alone… You weep… I do not move.Yet if…

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A Serenade

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I watch InesillaThy window beneath,Deep slumbers the villaIn night’s dusky sheath.Enamoured I linger,Close mantled, for thee–With sword and with guitar,O look once on me!Art sleeping? Wilt wake theeGuitar tones so light?The argus-eyed greybeardMy swift sword shall smite.The ladder of ropesThrow me fearlessly now!Dost falter? Hast thou, Sweet,Been false to thy vow?I watch InesillaThy window beneath,Deep slumbers the villaIn night’s dusky sheath!

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Curious

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–What’s new? “I tell you, nothing whatsoever.”–Don’t fool with me: you’re hiding it, I know.Oh, don’t you feel ashamed? you think you’re cleverTo hide the news from me like from a foe?Oh, tell me, brother, why? Inform me, I insist!Don’t be so stubborn, give me just a clue…“Oh, let me be, the only thing I know is this –That you’re a fool, but that is nothing new.”

The Singer

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Did you attend? He sang by grove ripe –The bard of love, the singer of his mourning.When fields were silent by the early morning,To sad and simple sounds of a pipeDid you attend?Did you behold in dark of forest leafThe bard of love, the singer of his sadness?The trace of tears, the smile, the utter paleness,The quiet look, full of eternal grief,Did you behold?Then did you sigh when hearing how criesThe bard of love, the singer of his dole?When in the woods you saw the young man, sole,And met the look of his extinguished eyes,Then did you sigh?

Goblins Of The Steppes

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Stormy clouds delirious straying,Showers of whirling snowflakes white,And the pallid moonbeams waning–Sad the heavens, sad the night!Further speeds the sledge, and further,Loud the sleighbell’s melody,Grewsome, frightful ’tis becoming,‘Mid these snow fields now to be!Hasten! ‘That is useless, Master,Heavier for my team their load,And my eyes with snow o’er plasteredCan no longer see the road!Lost all trace of our direction,Sir, what now? The goblins drawUs already round in circles,Pull the sledge with evil claw!See! One hops with frantic gesture,In my face to grin and hiss,See! It goads the frenzied horsesOnward to the black abyss!In the darkness, like a palingOne stands forth,–and now I seeHim like walking-fire sparkling–Then the blackness,–woe is me!’Stormy clouds delirious straying,Showers of snowflakes whirling white,And the pallid moonbeams waning–Sad the heavens, sad the night!Sudden halt the weary horses,Silent too the sleighbells whirr–Look! What crouches on the ground there?‘Wolf,–or shrub,–I know not, Sir.’How the wind’s brood rage and whimper!Scenting, blow the triple team;See! One hops here! Forward Driver!How his eyes with evil gleam!Scarce controllable the horses,How the harness bells resound!Look! With what a sneering grimaceNow the spirit band surround!In an endless long procession,Formless, countless of their kindCircle us in flying coveysLike the leaves in Autumn wind.Now in ghastly silence deathly,Now with shrilling elfin cry–Is it some mad dance of bridal,Or a death march passing by?Stormy clouds delirious strayingShowers of snowflakes whirling white,And the pallid moonbeams waning–Sad the heavens, sad the night!Cloudward course the evil spiritsIn unceasing phantom bands,And their moaning and bewailingGrip my heart with icy hands!

The Poet

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Until he hears Apollo’s callTo make a hallowed sacrifice,A Poet lives in feeble thrallTo people’s empty vanities;And silent is his sacred lyre,His soul partakes of chilly sleep,And of the world’s unworthy sonsHe is, perhaps, the very least.But once Divinity’s commandApproaches his exquisite ear,The poet’s soul awakens, poised,Just like an eagle stirred from sleep.All worldly pleasures leave him cold,From common talk he stays aloof,And will not lower his proud headBefore the nation’s sacred cow.Untamed and brooding, he takes flight,Seething with sound and agitation,To reach a sea-swept, desert shore,A woodland wide and murmuring…

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The Last Flower

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Rich the first flower’s graces be,But dearer far the last to me;My spirit feels renewal sweet,Of all my dreams hope or desire–The hours of parting oft inspireMore than the moments when we meet!

Tatiana’s Letter

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FROM ‘EUGENE ONIEGIN’I write to you . . . when that is saidWhat more is left for me to say ?Now you are free (I know too well)To heap contempt upon my head.Yet if some sparks of pity dwellWithin your breast you’ll surely notAbandon me to my hard lot.When first I saw you I desiredTo hold my peace : my shame (’tis true)Would ne’er have been revealed to youHad life’s conditions but inspiredOne gleam of hope that you would comeTo see us in our country homeFrom time to time, so that I mightHear but one word, catch but one tone,And live by dreaming on aloneTill our next meeting, day and night.But then it seemed there was no hope;Our rustic quiet bored you so,Folk said you were a misanthrope;And we—we do not make a show—You found us narrow in our scope.Why did you come to visit usI n this forgotten quiet place ?I need not have been tortured thusIf I had never seen your face.My inexperienced heart maybeHad grown resigned to this dull life,And future years had brought to meSome other love—my destinyAn honoured mother and true wife.Another’s! Nay, to none on earthCould I have given this heart of mine.By the decree of the Most High,And by Heaven’s willing, I am thine.Allotted unto you was IE’en from the moment of my birthAnd loyal to my future fate;And God, I know, sent you to beMy champion and my advocateTill the grave closes over me. . . .Oft in my dreams you did appear;I loved you then before the daysWhen palpably I saw you here ;I languished in your wondrous gazeAnd in my heart your voice rang clearLong since. … It was no dream to me!You came—at once I understoodThis swift confusion in my blood,While my thoughts whispered : ‘ Lo, ’tis he.’Was it not true ? Am I not sureYou spoke with me in hours of peaceWhen I went visiting my poor,Or when I strove by prayer to easeThe pain in which my spirit toss’d ?Was not your image wont to riseA vision sweet—too quickly lost—To light my gloom ? Did not mine eyesSee you bend gently o’er my bed ?Were not some words low whisperedOf love and hope ? Now in what guiseCome you ? As guardian angel good,Or tempter in some wily mood ?0 speak, and set my doubts at rest!What if all this should prove at bestThe empty dream, more light than froth,Of a heart simple and untried ?Well, be it so! But from henceforthI must to you my fate confide.Must weep my tears about your feetAnd for your sheltering love entreat.Picture me now. … I sit aloneWith none to heed or guess what ails . . .And now my very reason fails!I wait for you. One glance of yoursFresh hope unto my heart restores;Or else the cruel dream comes backOf merited contempt. . . . Alack![She seals the letter.]‘Tis done! I scarce dare read it through,But overcome with shame and frightI trust my honour now to you,And dare to think I trust aright.

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Thoughts

[俄罗斯] 普希金

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 say to myself: the years are fleeting,And however many there seem to be,We must all go under the eternal vault,And someone?s hour is already at hand.When I look at a solitary oakI think: the patriarch of the woods.It will outlive my forgotten ageAs it outlived that of my grandfathers?.If I dandle a young infant,Immediately I think: farewell!I will yield my place to you,For I must fade while your flower blooms.Each day, and every hourI habitually follow in my thoughts,Trying to guess from their numberThe year which brings my death.And where will fate send death to me?In battle, in my travels, or on the seas?Or will the neighbouring valleyReceive my chilled ashes?And although to the senseless bodyIt is indifferent wherever it rots,Yet close to my beloved countrysideI still would prefer to rest.And let it be, beside the grave?s vaultThat young life forever will be playing,And impartial, indifferent natureEternally be shining in beauty.

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