Monday, 18/11/2019 - 15:18

Poems by Russian authors

The Angel

The angel was flying through sky in midnight, And softly he sang in his flight; And clouds, and stars, and the moon in a throng Hearkened to that holy song. He sang of the garden of God’s paradise, Of innocent ghosts in its shade; He sang of the God, and his vivacious praise Was glories...

The Beggar.

By gates of an abode, blessed, A man stood, asking for donation, A beggar, cruelly oppressed By hunger, thirst and deprivation. He asked just for a piece of bread, And all his looks were full of anguish, And was a cold stone laid Into his stretched arm, thin and languished. Thus I prayed vainly for...

The Captive Knight.

By a loophole, I sit in my prison, Could see the blue of the heaven from there, I feel sharp pain and a shame at the vision Of heedless birds, freely playing in air. On my dry lips, I’ve not any prayers, Nor any songs, that have ever to fly on, But I remember the […]

Confession.

I’m to believe, but with some fear, For I haven’t tried it all before, That every monk could be sincere And live as he by altar swore; That smiles and kisses of all people Could be perfidious only once; That, sometimes, they forgive the little Mistakes, the others make by chance; That time...

The Cross On the Rock.

I know a rock in a highland’s ravine, On which only eagles might ever be seen, But a black wooden cross o’er a precipice reigns, It rots and it ages from tempests and rains. And many years have gone without any hints, From times when it was seen from faraway hills. And its every arm...

The Dagger.

Yes, I like you, my knife of damask pledge, My friend so bright and so cold, A thoughtful Georgian forged you for his revenge, A free Circassian then sharpened for a row. You had been trusted me by lily-like a hand – A sign for memory – in time of separation, And now no blood […]

Death Of the Poet.

The Bard is killed! The honor’s striver Fell, slandered by a gossip’s dread, With lead in breast and vengeful fire, Drooped with his ever-proud head. The Poet’s soul did not bear The shameful hurts of low breed, He fought against the worldly “faire,” Alone as always,...

Don’t Trust In Self…

Don’t trust in self, my dreamer young, don’t trust, Beware, like ulcers, inspiration… It is the heavy fit of your unhealthy heart, Or jailed ideas’ irritation. Don’t seek in inspiration Heaven’s stuff: That’s your blood boils or powers you over! Let troubles fast extinguish all your...

The Dream.

The glen of Daghestan, at noon, was hot and gleaming; I lay on sand with lead sent to my heart, My deadly wound was deep and easily steaming; And, drop by drop, was oozing out blood. I lay on sand of this small glen, alone; High cliffs surrounded my motionless head. The sun was scorching […]

The First Of January

When I often stay a motley crowd in, When before my eyes, as in an awful dream, To humming orchestras and dances, And foolish whispering of speeches learnt by eart, Flit figures of the people lost of heart, And masques with a false politeness; When my hands are touched, by any chance, With heedless...