The Delibash
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!
Thy mad mood thou wilt atone for--
On his pike he'll skewer thee!
'Ware friend Cossack! Or at full bound,
Off thy head, at lightning speed
With his scimitar he'll sever
From thy trunk! He will indeed!
What confusion! What a roaring!
Halt! thou devil's pack, have care!
On the pike is lanced the horseman--
Headless stands the Cossack there!
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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To The Don
Through the Steppes, see there he glances!
Silent flood glad hailed by me,--
Thy far distant sons do proffer
Through me, greeting fond to thee!
Every stream knows thee as brother,
Don, thou river boasted wide!
The Araxes and Euphrates
Send thee greeting as they glide.
Fresh and strengthened for pursuing,
Scenting home within thy gleam--
Drink again the Don'ish horses,
Flowing boundary, of thy stream!
Faithful Don! There also greet thee
Thy true warriors bold and free--
Let thy vineyard's foaming bubbles
In the glass be spilled to thee!
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Don’t Ask Me Why
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...
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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The Name
What is my name to you? 'T will die:
a wave that has but rolled to reach
with a lone splash a distant beach;
or in the timbered night a cry ...
'T will leave a lifeless trace among
names on your tablets: the design
of an entangled gravestone line
in an unfathomable tongue.
What is it then? A long-dead past,
lost in the rush of madder dreams,
upon your soul it will not cast
Mnemosyne's pure tender beams.
But if some sorrow comes to you,
utter my name with sighs, and tell
the silence: "Memory is true -
there beats a heart wherein I dwell."
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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The Coach Of Life
Although her load is sometimes heavy,
The coach moves at an easy pace;
The dashing driver, gray-haired time
Drives on, secure upon his box.
At dawn we gaily climb aboard her
We're ready for a crazy ride,
And scorning laziness and languor,
We shout: 'Get on, there! Don't delay!'
But midday finds our courage wane,
We're shaken now: and at this hour
Both hills and dales inspire dread.
We shout: 'Hold on, drive slower, fool!'
The coach drives on just as before;
By eve we are used to it,
And doze as we attain our inn.
While Time just drives the horses on.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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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,
The quiet look, full of eternal grief,
Did you behold?
Then did you sigh when hearing how cries
The 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?
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Lyric written in 1830
What means my name to you?...T'will die
As does the melancholy murmur
Of 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 relic
Of some long dead and vanished age.
What's in my name?...Long since forgot,
Erased by new, tempestuous passion,
of tenderness 'twill leave you not
The 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."
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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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.
So this is she for whom my soul once burned
In the tense and heavy fire,
Obsessed, exhausted, driven out of my mind
By tenderness and desire!
Where are the torments? Where is love? Alas!
For the unreturning days'
Sweet memory, and for the poor credulous
Shade, I find no lament, no tears.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Muse
In my youth's years, she loved me, I am sure.
The flute of seven pipes she gave in my tenure
And harked to me with smile -- without speed,
Along the ringing holes of the reed,
I got to play with my non-artful fingers
The peaceful songs of Phrygian village singers,
And the important hymns, that gods to mortals bade.
>From morn till night in oaks' silent shade
I 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 breathing
And filled the heart with holiness unceasing.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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Remembrance
When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With 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.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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