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Cлово "BIRD"


А Б В Г Д Е Ж З И Й К Л М Н О П Р С Т У Ф Х Ц Ч Ш Щ Э Ю Я
0-9 A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
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1. * * * (Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
2. * * * (He was jealous, fearful and tender)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
3. Поберезкина Полина: Анна Ахматова. Другие тринадцать строчек
Входимость: 1. Размер: 42кб.
4. * * * (I was born not late and not early)
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5. * * * (I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk)
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6. December 9, 1913
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7. * * * (Why do you pretend to be)
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8. * * * (The muse has left along narrow)
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9. July 1914
Входимость: 1. Размер: 3кб.
10. * * * (Bow of moon I see, I see)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах

1. * * * (Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven The clouds are roughly pasted, almost dark. The leaves of only oak within the park Are still colorless and thin. The rays of dusk are burning until midnight. How nice it is inside my cramped abode! Today with me converse many-a-bird About the most tender, in delight. I'm happy. But the way, Forest and smooth, is to me most dear, The crippled bridge, curved a bit here, And that remain only several days.
2. * * * (He was jealous, fearful and tender)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: He was jealous, fearful and tender, He loved me like God's only light, And that she not sing of the past times He killed my bird colored white. He said, in the lighthouse at sundown: "Love me, laugh and write poetry!" And I buried the joyous songbird Behind a round well near a tree. I promised that I would not mourn her. But my heart turned to stone without choice, And it seems to me that everywhere And always I'll hear her sweet voice.
3. Поберезкина Полина: Анна Ахматова. Другие тринадцать строчек
Входимость: 1. Размер: 42кб.
Часть текста: ты странах?" "Сестра, отвернись, не смотри на меня, Эта грудь в кровавых ранах". Начальная строка раннего киевского стихотворения, написанного Ахматовой в 1909 или начале 1910 г., возможно, подсказана "Песнями" Мориса Метерлинка в переводе Валерия Брюсова: Пришли и сказали, (О, как страшно, дитя!) Пришли и сказали, Что уходит он. <…> А если он возвратится, Что должна ему я сказать? - Скажи, что я и до смерти Его продолжала ждать. "Двенадцать песен" Метерлинка в переводе Георгия Чулкова вышли в 1905 г.; "Весы" откликнулись рецензией Вячеслава Иванова2 и подробным критическим разбором Брюсова "Фиалки в тигеле"3. В том же номере журнала помещены семь песен в переводе Брюсова. Мы не знаем, был ли доступен Ахматовой в те годы французский оригинал, но за публикациями в "Весах" она следила: "Под моим влиянием кузина выписывает "Весы", в этом году они очень интересны, судя по объявлению"4. Всемирную славу Метерлинк завоевал как драматург; в этой роли - упоминанием Синей птицы - он и вошел впоследствии в круг "Поэмы без героя". 2. "Да, я любила их, те сборища ночные…" Да, я любила их, те сборища ночные, - На маленьком столе стаканы ледяные, Над черным кофеем пахучий, тонкий пар, Камина красного тяжелый, зимний жар, Веселость едкую литературной шутки И друга первый взгляд, беспомощный и жуткий. Исследователи не раз указывали5, что в стихотворном описании "Бродячей собаки" (январь 1917 г.) Ахматова ориентировалась на поэзию пушкинской поры. Но и зачин отмечен явной литературностью ...
4. * * * (I was born not late and not early)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: I was born not late and not early, This time is blessed and meet, Only God did not allow a heart To live long without deceit. And from this it is dark in the light room, And from this do the friends I've sought, Like the sorrowful birds of evening, Sing of love that was not.
5. * * * (I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk, Meadow circular, water dead, With most heavy and most shady, All of this I will never forget. In the cast-iron gates you will enter, Blissful tremor the flesh does rile, You don't live, but you're screaming and ranting Or you live in another style. In late autumn fresh and biting Wanders wind, for its loneliness glad. In white gowns dressed the black fir trees On the molten snow stand. And, filled up with a burning fever, Dear voice sounds like song without word, And on copper shoulder of Cytharus Sits the red-chested bird.
6. December 9, 1913
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: The darkest days of the year Must become the most clear. I can't find words to compare - Your lips are so tender and dear. Only to raise your eyes do not dare, Keeping the life of me. They're lighter than vials premier, And deadlier for me. I understand now, that we need no words, The snowed branches are light, and more, The birdcatcher, to catch birds, Has laid nets on the rivershore.
7. * * * (Why do you pretend to be)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: Why do you pretend to be A wind, a bird, or a stone? Why do you smile at me From the sky with a sudden dawn? Do not torment me, do not touch! Leave me to wise cares, away! The inebriated flame sways Over dried-up marshes gray. And Muse in a torn kerchief Sings disconsolate and at length. In harsh and youthful anguish Is her miraculous strength.
8. * * * (The muse has left along narrow)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: The muse has left along narrow And winding street, And with large drops of dew Were sprinkled her feet. For long did I ask of her To wait for winter with me, But she said, "The grave is here, How can you breathe, you see?" I wanted to give her a dove That is whiter than all the rest But the bird herself flew above After my graceful guest. Looking at her I was silent, I loved her alone And like gates into her country In the sky stood the dawn.
9. July 1914
Входимость: 1. Размер: 3кб.
Часть текста: I Smells like burning. For four weeks now The dry ground on the swamplands bakes. Today even birds did not sing songs And the aspen-tree does not shake. Sun has stopped in divine displeasure Easter rain did not pelt fields hard. A one-legged passerby came here And alone said in the yard: "Awful times near. For freshly dug graves There will be not be enough place soon. Expect pest, expect plague, expect coward, And eclipses of Sun and Moon. But the enemy won't get to divide Our lands for his fun: Holy Mary will spread on her own Over great sorrows a white gown" II From the burning forests is flying Sweet smell of the evergreens. Over children soldiers' wives are moaning Cry of widows through village rings. Not in vain were the prayers rendered, The earth was thirsty for rain: The stomped-over fields with red dampness Were covered and covered remain. Low, low is the empty heaven, And quiet is the praying one's voice: "They will wound your most holy body And cast dice about your acts of choice."
10. * * * (Bow of moon I see, I see)
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: Bow of moon I see, I see Through dense canopy of groves, Level sound I hear, I hear Of the free horse's hooves. What? And you don't want to sleep, In a year could you forget Me, nor are you used to find Empty and unmade your bed? Not with you then do I speak Through sharp cries of hunting birds, Not in your eyes do I look From white pages full of words? Why you circle, like a thief At the quiet habitat? Or recall the verdict and Wait for me alive like that? I'm asleep. In dense dark, moon Threw a blade just like a dart. There is knocking. In this way Beats my warm and precious heart.