Поиск по творчеству и критике
Cлова начинающиеся на букву "O"

1. * * * (In boat or in horsecart)

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Часть текста: In boat or in horsecart This way you cannot go Deep water stands and lingers In the decrepit snow Surrounding the mansion From every side by now.. Ah! Closely wails it over The same Robinson Crusoe. The sled, the skies, the horse He will come by to see, And later on the couch He sits and waits for me And with a short spore He tears the rug in two. Now the brief smile of mine The mirror will not view.

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

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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. To my dear one

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Часть текста: Do not send a dove in my direction, Do not write tumultuous notes at all, Do not fan my face with the March breeze. I have now entered a green heaven, Where there's calm for body and for soul Underneath the shady maple trees. And from here I can see a town, Booths and barracks of a palace made of stone Chinese yellow bridge over the ice. For three hours now you wait for me - you're frozen, But you cannot move from the perron, At the stars you marvel with your eyes. Like a gray squirrel you'll jump on the alder, Like a frightful swallow I will go, I will then call for you like a swan, So that the bridegroom would not fear In the blue and swirling falling snow To await his deceased bride alone.

4. * * * (Why do you pretend to be)

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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.

5. * * * (The other cranes shout "Cour-lee")

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Часть текста: The other cranes shout "Cour-lee" Calling a wounded one When autumn fields around Are fallow and warm. And I, being sick, hear calling, The noise of golden wings From dense and low clouds And thick underbrush. "It's time to fly, it's time to fly, Over the field and river. For you already cannot sing And wipe a tear from a cheek With a weakened arm."