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    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. * * * (I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk)
    Входимость: 2. Размер: 2кб.
    2. * * * (Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven)
    Входимость: 2. Размер: 2кб.
    3. * * * (I dream less of him, dear God be gloried)
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
    4. Anna Akhmatova. White Flock
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 10кб.
    5. July 1914
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 3кб.
    6. * * * (The early chills are most pleasant to me)
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
    7. * * * (Not thus, from cursed lightness having disembarked)
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
    8. Стихотворения
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 44кб.
    9. December 9, 1913
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
    10. Escape
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 3кб.

    Примерный текст на первых найденных страницах

    1. * * * (I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk)
    Входимость: 2. 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.
    2. * * * (Immortelle's dry and pink. On the fresh heaven)
    Входимость: 2. 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.
    3. * * * (I dream less of him, dear God be gloried)
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.
    Часть текста: I dream less of him, dear God be gloried, Does not shimmer everywhere any more. Fog has fallen on the whitened road, Shadows run over water to the shore. And all day the ringing did not quiet Over the expanse of ploughed up soil, Here most powerfully from Jonah Distant Laurel belltowers do recoil. I am trimming on the lilac bushes Branches, that are now in full flower; Ramparts of the ancient fortifying Two old monks are slowly walking over. Dear world, understood and corporeal, For me, one unseeing, set alive. Heal this soul of mine, the King of Heaven, With the icy comfort of not love.
    4. Anna Akhmatova. White Flock
    Входимость: 1. Размер: 10кб.
    Часть текста: * * * (All year long you are close to me) * * * (Ancient city is as if dead) * * * (Before the spring arrives there are such days) * * * (Best for me loudly the gaming-poems to say) * * * (Black road wove ahead of me) * * * (Bow of moon I see, I see) * * * (City vanished, the last house's window) * * * (Did for this, and for this only) * * * (Did not scold me, did not praise me) * * * (Divine angel, who betrothed us) * * * (Every evening I receive) * * * (From memory of you I will remove that day) * * * (God is unkind to gardeners and reapers) * * * (Has my fate really been so altered) * * * (He walked over fields and over village) * * * (He was jealous, fearful and tender) * * * (How can you look at Nieva) * * * (How I love, how I loved to stare) * * * (How often did I curse) * * * (How spacious are these squares) * * * (I came over to the pine forest) * * * (I do not count mortal days) * * * (I dream less of him, dear God be gloried) * * * (I have ceased and desisted from smiling) * * * (I have visions of hilly Pavlovsk) * * * (I know, that you are my reward) * * * (I myself have freely chosen) * * * (I remember you only rarely) * * * (I see capital through the flurry) * * * (I was born not late and not early) * *...
    5. 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."

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