Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin: Всі вірші поета

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I Loved Thee

I loved thee; and perchance until this moment

Within 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!

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Under The Blue Skies

Under the blue skies of her native land

She languished and began to fade...

Until surely there flew without a sound

Above me, her young shade;

But there stretches between us an uncrossable line.

In vain my feelings I tried to awaken.

The lips that brought the news were made of stone,

And I listened like a stone, unshaken.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

The Poet

Until he hears Apollo's call

To make a hallowed sacrifice,

A Poet lives in feeble thrall

To people's empty vanities;

And silent is his sacred lyre,

His soul partakes of chilly sleep,

And of the world's unworthy sons

He is, perhaps, the very least.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

The Singer

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 pipe

Did you attend?

Did you behold in dark of forest leaf

The bard of love, the singer of his sadness?

The trace of tears, the smile, the utter paleness,

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

May 26, 1828

Gift haphazard, unavailing,

Life, why were thou given me?

Why art thou to death unfailing

Sentenced by dark destiny?

Who in harsh despotic fashion

Once from Nothing called me out,

Filled my soul with burning passion

Vexed and shook my mind with doubt?

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Day's Rain Is Done

Day's rain is done. The rainy mist of night

Spreads 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,

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Night Piece

I can't sleep, and there's no light,

Mirk all round and restless slumber,

Tickings near me without number,

Monotonous clock measuring night!

O you Fates with old wives' chatter,

Sleepy night so softly swaying,

Life with mouselike pitter-patter,

Why vex me, what are you saying?

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Winter Evening

The storm wind covers the sky

Whirling the fleecy snow drifts,

Now it howls like a wolf,

Now it is crying, like a lost child,

Now rustling the decayed thatch

On our tumbledown roof,

Now, like a delayed traveller,

Knocking on our window pane.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Arion

A lot of us were on the bark:

Some framed a sail for windy weather,

The others strongly and together

Moved 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 stiff

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

The Talisman

Where the sea forever dances

Over lonely cliff and dune,

Where sweet twilight's vapor glances

In a warmer-glowing moon,

Where with the seraglio's graces

Daylong toys the Mussulman,

An enchantress 'mid embraces

Handed me a talisman.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

To My Friends

The chain of golden days and nights

Is still your heritage from Deity,

And, still, the languid maidens’ eyes

Are 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.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Thoughts

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.

by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin