Lyrics А. С. Пушкин - Осень

Autumn
I
October has come - the grove is shaking
The last sheets from their naked branches;
The autumn cold died - the road freezes.
The murmur still runs after the mill stream,
But the pond was already frozen; my neighbor hurries
Into the departing fields with my desire
And they guard winter with crazy fun
And the barking dogs awake asleep.
II
Now is my time: I do not like spring;
The thaw is boring to me; stink, dirt - in the spring I am sick;
Blood roaming; feelings, mind are melancholy constrained.
I am more satisfied with the harsh winter
I love her snow; in the presence of the moon
As an easy run of a sled with a girlfriend is quick and free
When under the sable, warmed and fresh,
She shakes your hand, blazing and trembling!
III
How fun, iron shoes with sharp feet,
Glide on the mirror of standing, level rivers!
A winter holidays brilliant alarm? ..
But one must know and honor; half a year snow and snow,
After all, this is finally a den den
Bear, tired. It’s impossible for a whole century
Riding us in a sleigh with Armids young
Or sour near the ovens behind double glazed windows.
IV
Oh, summer is red! I would love you
If it weren’t for heat, for dust, for mosquitoes, for flies.
You, all spiritual abilities are ruining,
You torment us; like fields, we are suffering from drought;
Just as if to give a drink, but to refresh myself -
There is no other thought in us, and sorry for the old woman’s winter,
And holding her pancakes and wine
Wake her make ice cream and ice.
V
The days of late autumn usually scold,
But she’s sweet to me, dear reader,
Beauty quiet, shining humbly.
So unloved child in a native family
It draws me to itself. Tell you frankly
Of the annual times, I’m glad only for her alone,
It has a lot of good; lover is not conceited
I found something in her dream wayward.
VI
How to explain this? I like her,
How probably you consumptive maid
Sometimes I like it. Condemned to death
The poor thing slopes without a murmur, without anger.
A smile on the lips of a faded is visible;
She does not hear a grave abyss;
Playing on the face is still a crimson color.
She is still alive today, tomorrow not.
VII
Sad time! eyes charm!
Your farewell beauty is pleasant to me -
I love the lush nature of wilting,
In scarlet and gold clad forests
In their canopy of the wind, noise and fresh breath,
And the heavens are covered with a hazy wavy
And a rare ray of the sun, and the first frosts,
And a distant gray-haired winter threat.
VIII
And with every fall I blossom again;
Russian cold is good for my health;
I again feel love for the habits of being:
The dream flies up, the star finds hunger;
Blood plays easily and joyfully in the heart,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young
I am full of life again - this is my body
(Let me forgive unnecessary prosaism).
IX
They are leading a horse to me; in the open expanse,
Waving his mane, he carries a rider,
And loudly under his shining hoof
The frozen dolly rings and ice crackes.
But the brief day goes out, and in the forgotten little chamber
The fire burns again - that bright light is pouring,
That smolders slowly - and I read before it
Or I have long thoughts in my soul.
X
And forget the world - and in sweet silence
I am sweetly lulled by my imagination
And poetry awakens in me:
The soul is shy lyrical excitement
Trembles and sounds, and seeks, as in a dream,
Finally pour out in a free manifestation -
And then an invisible swarm of guests comes to me,
Old acquaintances, the fruits of my dreams.
Xi
And the thoughts in my head worry in courage
And easy rhymes run towards them,
And fingers ask for a pen, a pen for paper,
A minute - and the verses will flow freely.
So dozed motionless ship in motionless moisture,
But choo! - the sailors suddenly rush, crawl
Up, down - and the sails swelled, the winds were full;
The crowd moved and cuts the waves.
XII
Swims. Where do we go? ..