Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "GATES"
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: It seems as though the voice of man Will never sound in this place, But only wind from age of stone Is knocking on black gates. It seems to me that I alone Have kept good health under this sky, Because of this, that first I sought To drink the deadly wine.
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.
Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
Часть текста: Black road wove ahead of me, Drizzling rain fell, To accompany me Someone asked for a spell. I agreed, but I forgot To see him in light of day, And then it was strange To remember the way. Like incense of thousand censers Flowed the fog And the companion bothered The heart with a song. Ancient gates I remember And the end of the way - There the man who went with me "Forgive," did say. He gave me a copper cross Like my brother very own And everywhere I hear the sound Of the steppe song. Here I am at home like home - I cry and I am in rue Answer to me, my stranger, I am looking for you!
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.