First Lines of Alexander Pushkin

A Floweret, withered, odorlessA monument not hand-made I have for me erected;Ask not why with sad reflectionAt the gates of Eden a tender angelBitterly groaning, jealous maid the youth was scolding;Blessed who to himself has keptBreaking thro' the waving fogsBy a lake once in forest darknessChild of Nature and simple,Child, I dare not over theeCross-firing behind the hills:Damp day's light is quenched: damp night's darknessDear my friend, we are now parted,Ere the poet summoned isEvening ZephyrFor the shores of thy distant homeFrost and sun -- the day is wondrous!God grant I grow not insane:God's birdlet knowsGood-bye, love-letter, good-bye! 'T is her command. . . .Happy who to himself confessHast thou seen on the rock the maid,Have ye heard in the woods the nightly voiceHushed I soon shall be. But if on sorrow's dayI Cannot sleep, I have no light;I Gaze demented on the black shawlI Thought forgotten has the heartIn exile I sacredly observeIn silent gardens, in the spring, in the darkness of the nightIn the days of my youth she was fond of me,In the world's desert, sombre and shorelessIn those days when new to me wereIn vain, dear friend, to conceal I triedInto the hut the children run,Life, -- does it disappoint thee?Mayhap not long am destined IMy wishes I have survived,Not at once our youth is faded,Not dear I prize high-sounding rightsNot ye regret I, of spring my years,O last cloud of the scattered storm,Oh, if true it is that by nightOn a rainy autumn eveningOnce at midnight hour,Over the wooded banks,Poet, not popular applause shalt thou prize!Sing not, Beauty, in my presence,Slowly my days are draggingThe clouds again are o'er me,The extinguished joy of crazy yearsThe longed-for moment here is. Ended is my long-yeared task.The moment wondrous I rememberThe name of me, what is it to theeThe storm the sky with darkness covers,Thee I loved; not yet love perhaps isThus it ever was and ever will be,Till now no faith I had in Graces:To thee I rode: living dreams thenTormented by the thirst for the spiritUseless gift, accidental gift,When noisy day to mortals quiet grows,Whether I roam along the noisy streetsWhy dost thou neigh, O spirited steed,Why, O wrathful north wind, thouWith scorning laughter at a fellow writer,With sleepy brush the barbarian artistYe dreams, ye dreams,
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