Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлово "SOON"

1. * * * (They're on the way, the words of love and freedom)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

2. * * * (That voice, with great quietude arguing)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

3. * * * (How can you look at Nieva)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

4. July 1914

Входимость: 1. Размер: 3кб.

1. * * * (They're on the way, the words of love and freedom)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

Часть текста: They're on the way, the words of love and freedom, They're flying faster than the moment flies And I am in stage fright before singing - My lips have grown colder than ice. But soon that place, where, leaning to the windows The tender birches make dry rustling sound, The voices will be ringing of the shadows And roses will in blackened wreaths be wound. And further onward still - the light is generous Unbearably as though ‘t were red hot wine.. And now the wind, all redolent and heated, In perfect vigor has enflamed my mind.

2. * * * (That voice, with great quietude arguing)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

Часть текста: That voice, with great quietude arguing, Had a victory over her. In me still, like song or woe, Is last winter before the war. She was whiter than Smolny Cathedral More mysterious than summer garden festooned We didn't know that in parting sadness We'd be looking back soon.

3. * * * (How can you look at Nieva)

Входимость: 1. Размер: 2кб.

Часть текста: How can you look at Nieva, How can on the bridges you rise? With a reason I'm sad since the time You appeared before my eyes. Sharp are black angels' wings, The last judgment is coming soon, And raspberry fires, like roses, In the white snow bloom.

4. 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."