Post by jeannerené on Jun 2, 2007 15:05:17 GMT -8
Alexander Pushkin (1799-1837)
Oh my... the passion is fantastic....!!
Great bio info:
stpetersburg-guide.com/people/pushkin.shtml
****
A CONFESSION
To Alexandra Ivanovna Osipova
I love you - love you, even as I
Rage 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 skirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlor - strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
You frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;
You smile - and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day's anguish
Comes 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 tenderness
I childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving,
Weep and in silence pass the day?..
Alina! Pray relent, have mercy!
I dare not ask for love - with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!..
But if you feigned love, if you would
Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!
1826
***
TO THE FOUNTAIN
OF BAKHCHISARAI
Two roses do I bring to thee,
O fount of love that 'fore me dances.
Thy tears poetic comfort me,
Thy tender voice my soul entrances.
Thou greetest me as I draw near,
My face with silvered dew drops spraying.
Flow, flow, O fount, and, ceaseless playing,
Speak, speak thy story in my ear.
O fount of love, O fount of sadness,
From thy stone lips long tales I heard
Of far-off parts, of woe and gladness,
But of Maria ne'er a word...
Like poor and long forgot Zarema,
Is she, the harem's pallid sun,
Formed of the mists of idle dreaming
And of the stuff of visions spun?
The spirit's dim and vague ideal
Drawn by the hand of fantasy,
Is she a thing remote, unreal,
A phantom that must cease to be?..
1824
***
THE POET
The bard, when asks of him Apollo
No sacred offering, is deep
In worldly cares ere long and follows
A dismal road: dark, numbing sleep
His soul embraces; no sound reaches
Us from his lyre - mute does it rest;
Of all earth's mean and paltry creatures
He is perhaps the paltriest.
But lo!- the good god's voice his ear
Has reached, and from his torpor parted
Is he, his soul an eagle startled
And on the wing. Our pleasures drear
Now seem to him; so too does idle
And petty talk. He'll not his head
Bow in obeisance to an idol,
The darling of the herd. Instead,
Full of sweet sounds, in wild confusion
Of heart, to distant, lonely seas
That lick at empty shores he flees,
In windswept forests seeks seclusion...
1827
***
Other links:
The Pushkin Page
falcon.jmu.edu/~pleckesg/Pushkin/Bio.html
**
Pushkin's Poems
www.pushkins-poems.com/
Oh my... the passion is fantastic....!!
Great bio info:
stpetersburg-guide.com/people/pushkin.shtml
****
A CONFESSION
To Alexandra Ivanovna Osipova
I love you - love you, even as I
Rage 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 skirts rustle, when, my angel,
Your girlish voice I hear, when your
Light step sounds in the parlor - strangely,
I turn confused, perturbed, unsure.
You frown - and I'm in pain, I languish;
You smile - and joy defeats distress;
My one reward for a day's anguish
Comes 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 tenderness
I childlike watch, my heart o'erflowing
With love, in my gaze a caress.
Shall I my jealousy and yearning
Describe, my bitterness and woe
When by yourself on some bleak morning
Off on a distant walk you go,
Or with another spend the evening
And, with him near, the piano play,
Or for Opochka leave, or, grieving,
Weep and in silence pass the day?..
Alina! Pray relent, have mercy!
I dare not ask for love - with all
My many sins, both great and small,
I am perhaps of love unworthy!..
But if you feigned love, if you would
Pretend, you'd easily deceive me,
For happily would I, believe me,
Deceive myself if but I could!
1826
***
TO THE FOUNTAIN
OF BAKHCHISARAI
Two roses do I bring to thee,
O fount of love that 'fore me dances.
Thy tears poetic comfort me,
Thy tender voice my soul entrances.
Thou greetest me as I draw near,
My face with silvered dew drops spraying.
Flow, flow, O fount, and, ceaseless playing,
Speak, speak thy story in my ear.
O fount of love, O fount of sadness,
From thy stone lips long tales I heard
Of far-off parts, of woe and gladness,
But of Maria ne'er a word...
Like poor and long forgot Zarema,
Is she, the harem's pallid sun,
Formed of the mists of idle dreaming
And of the stuff of visions spun?
The spirit's dim and vague ideal
Drawn by the hand of fantasy,
Is she a thing remote, unreal,
A phantom that must cease to be?..
1824
***
THE POET
The bard, when asks of him Apollo
No sacred offering, is deep
In worldly cares ere long and follows
A dismal road: dark, numbing sleep
His soul embraces; no sound reaches
Us from his lyre - mute does it rest;
Of all earth's mean and paltry creatures
He is perhaps the paltriest.
But lo!- the good god's voice his ear
Has reached, and from his torpor parted
Is he, his soul an eagle startled
And on the wing. Our pleasures drear
Now seem to him; so too does idle
And petty talk. He'll not his head
Bow in obeisance to an idol,
The darling of the herd. Instead,
Full of sweet sounds, in wild confusion
Of heart, to distant, lonely seas
That lick at empty shores he flees,
In windswept forests seeks seclusion...
1827
***
Other links:
The Pushkin Page
falcon.jmu.edu/~pleckesg/Pushkin/Bio.html
**
Pushkin's Poems
www.pushkins-poems.com/
