William Wordsworth, whose biography and work are the subject of this review, was the largest representative of the romanticism movement in English literature. His work largely determined the transition from classicism to romanticism. His landscape painting is the best example of the world's poetic heritage.
General characteristics
William Wordsworth was a prominent representative of his time, his works should be considered in the context of the era. In the 18th century, the dominant trend in English literature was classicism. However, by the end of the century there was a tendency towards a transition to sentimental and romantic lyrics. This was largely determined by the dominant trends of that era, namely the fact that the works of Rousseau played great importance in socio-political thought and in literature in general. The cult of nature he put forward and the depiction of human experiences, emotions, and personal psychology had a huge influence on the educated circles of that time. In addition, English literature already had experience in creating sonnets, images of nature and subtle lyricism. The works of W. Shakespeare, D. Chaucer, D. Milton had a great influence on the poet’s work.
Childhood, adolescence and travel
William Wordsworth was born in 1770 in Cumberland County. He was the son of a real estate agent. The boy was sent to school in North Lancashire, where he received a good education: he studied ancient and English literature and mathematics. However, even more important was the fact that the child grew up in nature, which had a huge influence on the formation of his personality. It was then that he fell in love with landscapes, which later became mainly in his lyrical works. Then William Wordsworth entered the University of Cambridge, where there was an atmosphere of competition that did not suit him.
However, it was during his student years that a very significant event occurred: during the holidays, the young man and his friend went on a journey on foot to France, where revolutionary upheavals were just taking place. They made a great impression on the future poet. Together with his companion, he reached the lake district in Italy. This journey was of great importance for his work: under the impression of him, William Wordsworth wrote his first significant work (“Walk”). It has already outlined the basic creative principles of the author’s poetic work: a combination of descriptions of nature and philosophical reasoning. We can say that this poem became one of his most significant works. He worked a lot on it in subsequent, mature years, reworking, forwarding and inserting new parts into it.
Transition period
After graduating from university, William Wordsworth devoted himself to poetry. However, the 1790s were a difficult time for him, as it was a period of disappointment in the French Revolution. In addition, he was very sensitive to the fact that his country had started a war against France. All these experiences led to depression, so his lyrics from this period are painted in gloomy tones. But, fortunately, this did not last long, because very soon William Wordsworth, whose poems were still characterized by melancholy and despondency, met Coleridge, who was also a poet. This acquaintance literally within a year grew into a strong friendship, which was very fruitful for their cooperation, and, first of all, for the creative rise of the author.
"The Great Decade"
This is what is commonly called the period from 1797 to 1808 in the poet’s biography. William Wordsworth, whose works have now acquired a completely different sound, entered a period of creative upsurge. The friends decided to take a trip to Germany and before leaving they decided to publish a collection of poetic works that were supposed to demonstrate their views on modern literature. Coleridge was supposed to write ballads in an exotic style, and his friend - sentimental and romantic lyrics. However, the first included only about five works in the collection, the rest belonged to his co-author. The reason should be sought in the fact that Coleridge undertook to write ballads in the traditional English spirit, that is, on complex subjects and in a serious style. While his friend’s poems in English were light and simple. His heroes spoke in a speech that was understandable and accessible to everyone, which was a fundamental innovation for that time.
Creative principles
This collection is also interesting because during its second edition, in the preface, Wordsworth made an introduction in which he outlined the rules that guided him when writing his poems. He stated that his lyrical ballads were based on plots and reality, which he perceived and described as it seemed to him. And the poet saw life, nature and everyday life as a natural manifestation of the universe. Wordsworth stated that one must perceive and depict the surrounding reality in simple, clear and colloquial language. He believed that there is no need to complicate anything when creating a literary work, since the laws of nature are natural, they need to be perceived directly, without unnecessary philosophizing. This attitude reveals the influence of the ideas of Rousseau, who also glorified human life in the lap of nature and emphasized the artificiality of city life.
Basic images
Wordsworth's poems in English are distinguished by a simple composition, but their characteristic feature is the combination of images of nature, emotional experiences with deep philosophical reasoning. This was new to English literature at that time. In addition, the author made the hero of his works a simple person: on the pages of his poems there are tramps, wanderers, beggars, and traveling merchants. This type of character was new to English literature, and not everyone immediately appreciated the poet’s discovery. For some time, literary critics even criticized him for such innovations.
Another characteristic image in his poetry is that of a person who has suffered from social injustice. Wordsworth very sharply condemned the war and wrote the drama "Bordermen", in which he depicted all the horrors of victims and violence. And finally, the image of himself occupies a large place in his creative heritage. The poet wrote his autobiography in a poetic form called "Prelude". It is distinguished by an accurate depiction of human psychology and the emotional experiences of a character who carefully analyzed the path of his creative development as a poet. The image of the author is important for understanding the poet’s entire work in general.
Other works
The best examples of the author's lyrics include poems about nature and human emotional experiences. He was especially sensitive to the depiction of nature. William Wordsworth, whose “Daffodils” are one of the best examples of his lyric poetry, had a great and wonderful sense of the beauty of the world around him. In this poem, he sang the beauty of flowers and mountains in a very sonorous melodious form. This composition is distinguished by its extraordinary melodiousness and penetration.
Another of his famous works is called “On Westminster Bridge.” William Wordsworth recreated the panorama of London, but paid attention not so much to the urban landscape as to natural phenomena. In general, the city as such is almost not present in the poet’s works. It belongs entirely to the village, the countryside and nature.
Late period
The last two decades of the poet's life were marked by the gradual fading of his poetic inspiration. In literary criticism, it is customary to distinguish between “early” and “late” Wordsworth. And if the first stage of his work was marked by a clear and harmonious worldview, then the later period is distinguished by a difficult state of mind. This is largely due to the author’s personal losses: he experienced very hard the death of his beloved sister, with whom he lived all his life, as well as the death of his two children. In addition, he lost his brother, who drowned during one of the voyages, as well as his friend Coleridge. However, at this time he created a whole cycle of beautiful sonnets and elegiac works, which are imbued with sadness, sorrow and longing. These later works of his have a greater philosophical load than his early works, in which joyful admiration of the beauties of nature prevailed. The poet died in 1850 in the same county where he was born.
The Meaning of Creativity
Wordsworth's poetry became a landmark stage in the formation of English romanticism. In modern literary criticism, he, along with Coleridge, is classified as one of the older generation of romantics. It is significant that the author’s poetry did not immediately receive recognition. It was only in the 1830s that his services to literature were rewarded. The public began to favor his writings, and the queen granted him the title of poet laureate. He was also known in Russia. Thus, Pushkin in his famous “Sonnet” mentioned the name of a prominent author.
Years of life: from 04/07/1770 to 04/23/1850
English romantic poet. An outstanding representative of the “lake school”.
William Wordsworth was born on April 7, 1770 at Cockermouth in Cumberland. William Wordsworth was the second of five children of D. Wordsworth, attorney and agent of J. Lowther (later 1st Earl of Lonsdale).
In 1779, young William Wordsworth was sent to a classical school in Hawkshead (North Lancashire), from where he learned excellent knowledge of ancient philology and mathematics and was well-read in English poetry. In Hawkshead, the future poet devoted a lot of time to his favorite pastime - walking.
Already in 1787, William Wordsworth entered St. John's College, Cambridge University, where he studied mainly English literature and Italian. During the holidays, he walked around the Lake District and Yorkshire and wrote the poem “An Evening Walk” (1793) in heroic distich, which contains many heartfelt pictures of nature.
In July 1790, William Wordsworth and his university friend Richard Jones crossed France, which was experiencing a revolutionary awakening, on foot, and through Switzerland reached the lakes in northern Italy.
On his return to London in December 1792, he published An Evening Walk and Descriptive Sketches, a travelogue with Jones written in France and colored by an enthusiastic embrace of the revolution.
The Anglo-French war that broke out in February 1793 shocked William Wordsworth and plunged him into despondency and anxiety for a long time.
In the autumn of 1794, one of William Wordsworth's young friends died, bequeathing him 900 pounds. This timely gift allowed Wordsworth to devote himself entirely to poetry. From 1795 to mid-1797 he lived in Dorsetshire with his only sister Dorothea; they were united by complete kinship of souls. Dorothea believed in her brother, her support helped him get out of depression and become a great poet. He began with the tragedy "The Borderers". The poem in blank verse “The Ruined Cottage” - about the fate of an unfortunate woman - is filled with genuine feeling; the poem subsequently became the first part of The Excursion.
In July 1797, the Wordsworths moved to Alfoxden (Somersetshire) - closer to Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who lived in Nether Stowey. During a year of close communication with Coleridge, a collection of “Lyrical Ballads” was compiled, which included Coleridge’s “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, “The Feeble-Minded Boy”, “Thorn”, “Lines” written at a distance of several miles from Tintern Abbey and others Wordsworth's poems. An anonymous edition of the Ballads was published in September 1798. Samuel Taylor Coleridge persuaded Wordsworth to begin an epic "philosophical" poem about "man, nature and society" called The Recluse. William Wordsworth set to work with enthusiasm, but got bogged down in composition. As part of this plan, he wrote only a poetic introduction about man, nature and life, the autobiographical poem “The Prelude” (The Prelude, 1798-1805) and “Walk” (1806-1814). At Alfoxden he also completed (but did not publish) Peter Bell.
In September 1798, Wordsworth and Coleridge traveled to Germany. In Goslar, Wordsworth, starting to write “The Hermit,” set out in blank verse the story of his adolescent impressions and experiences of communicating with nature. He later included what he had written in The Prelude as Book I. In addition, he wrote many poems, including the series “Lucy and Ruth”.
In December 1799, he and Dorothea rented a cottage in Grasmere (Westmoreland County).
In January 1801, William Wordsworth published a second edition of Lyrical Ballads, adding the Grasmere-created narrative poems "The Brothers" and "Michael" and an extensive preface discussing the nature of poetic inspiration, the purpose of the poet, and the content and style of true poetry. Coleridge did not include a single new work in the second edition, and it, having absorbed the first, was published under the name of William Wordsworth alone.
The winter and spring of 1802 were marked by the poet’s creative activity: “The Cuckoo”, the triptych “Butterfly”, “Promises of Immortality”: Ode, Determination and Independence were written.
In May 1802 the old Earl of Lonsdale died and the heir agreed to pay the Wordsworths £8,000. This significantly strengthened the well-being of Dorothea and William, who was about to marry Mary Hutchinson. In August, all three traveled to Calais, where they met Anette Vallon and Caroline, and on October 4, Mary and Wordsworth were married. Their marriage was very happy. From 1803 to 1810 she bore him five children. Dorothea remained to live with her brother's family.
In 1808, the Wordsworths moved to a larger house in Grasmere. There Wordsworth wrote most of The Walk and several works of prose, including his famous pamphlet on the Convention of Cintra, motivated by sympathy for the Spanish under Napoleon and outrage at the treacherous policies of England. This period was overshadowed by a quarrel with Coleridge (1810-1812) and the death in 1812 of daughter Katherine and son Charles.
In May 1813 the Wordsworths left Grasmere and settled at Rydel Mount, two miles closer to Ambleside, where they lived for the rest of their days. In the same year, Wordsworth received, under the patronage of Lord Lonsdale, the post of State Commissioner of Stamp Duties in two counties, Westmoreland and part of Cumberland, which allowed him to provide for his family. He held this position until 1842, when he was awarded a royal pension of 300 pounds a year.
After the end of the Napoleonic Wars (1815), William Wordsworth was able to satiate his passion for travel by visiting Europe several times. He finished the “Prelude,” “a poem about his life,” back in 1805, but in 1832-1839 he carefully rewrote it, softening too frank passages and inserting pieces imbued with emphatically Christian sentiments.
In 1807 he published Poems in Two Volumes, which included many of his great lyric works. The Walk appeared in 1814, followed by the first collection of poems in two volumes in 1815 (with a third added in 1820). In 1816, the “Thanksgiving Ode” was published - to mark the victorious end of the war. In 1819, “Peter Bell and the Charioteer” (The Waggoner), written in 1806, was published, and in 1820, the cycle of sonnets “The River Duddon” was published. In 1822, Ecclesiastical Sketches were published, in the form of sonnets, outlining the history of the Anglican Church from the time of its formation. “Yarrow Revisited” (1835) was mainly written based on impressions from trips to Scotland in 1831 and 1833. The last book published by William Wordsworth was Poems, Chiefly of Early and Late Years (1842), which included “Borderlanders” and the early poem “Guilt and Sorrow.”
The last twenty years of the poet's life were overshadowed by the long illness of his beloved sister Dorothea. In 1847, he lost his only daughter Dora, whom he loved very much. His wife and devoted friends were his support. Wordsworth died at Rydel Mount on April 23, 1850.
Bibliography
1793 -- (An Evening Walk) and Descriptive Sketches
1795 -- The Borderers, The Ruined Cottage and The Excursion
The Recluse
Peter Bell (Peter Bell) book was completed but not published
1802 -- Cuckoo
1802 – Butterfly
1802 -- Promises of immortality
1805 -- The Prelude (changed until 1939)
1807 -- Poems in Two Volumes
1816 -- Thanksgiving Ode
1819 -- Peter Bell and the Charioteer (The Waggoner)
1820 -- sonnet cycle The River Duddon
1822 -- Ecclesiastical Sketches
1835 -- Yarrow Revisited
1842 -- Poems, Chiefly of Early and Late Years
Like clouds of a lonely shadow,
I wandered, gloomy and quiet,
And I met you on that happy day
A crowd of golden daffodils.
In the shade of the branches by the blue waters
They danced in a circle.
Like a starry tent
Flowers streamed an unsteady light
And, swaying in the wind,
They sent me their greetings.
There were thousands of them around
And everyone nodded to me like a friend.
Their dance was merry,
And I saw, full of delight,
That I couldn’t compare with her
The slow dance of the waves.
I didn't know the price then
Living gold of spring.
But from that time, when in the dark
I wait in vain for sleep to come,
I remember flowers
And, overshadowed with joy,
On that wooded bank
The soul dances in their circle.
Translation by A. Ibragimov
Multi-foam streams,
Running along a rocky path,
They fall into a deep valley,
To shut up and fall asleep.
A flock of clouds when it comes to terms
The wrath of a thunderstorm and the roar of thunder,
Lays down like a gloomy helmet
On a jagged row of hills.
Day and night the roe deer gallops
On the rocks among the heights,
But he hides her in bad weather
A secluded grotto from the rain.
The sea beast that is in the ocean
The peaceful one is deprived of shelter,
Sleeps between the waves, but their rocking
He does not feel through sleep.
Let, like a boat driven by a thunderstorm,
A raven dances in the stormy darkness -
He is glad of his native pier
On an unshakable rock.
Timid ostrich before sunset
It rushes along the sands,
But he’s also in a hurry to get somewhere
In the dear canopy - for the night...
Endless my road
The goal is still ahead
And the nomad's anxiety
Day and night in my chest.
Even the leaf in the oak grove has not faded,
And harvests from the fields, under a clear sky,
I didn’t cut off the sickle, but the air was cold,
Smelled from the mountains, where the Spirit of Winter drew
Ice sword, I hear a hint,
That soon the leaf will fall in the green forest.
And the leaf whispers to the singers of spring with a groan:
Hurry to the south, your enemy is not far away!
And I, who sing in winter as in summer,
Without trepidation, in that dull rustle
Dense forests and in the clear brilliance
I look forward to autumn days with joyful greetings
Snows and storms, when it is warmer,
Than in the summer heat, the poet's muses are delighted.
Off-road at random -
Simple hair, wild look, -
Burned by the fierce sun,
She wanders in the wilderness.
And in her arms there is a child,
And there’s not a soul nearby.
Taking a breath under the haystack,
On a stone in the silence of the forest
She sings, full of love,
And the English song is heard:
“Oh, my little one, my life!
Everyone says: I'm crazy.
But it's easy for me when I wash
I will quench my sadness with a song.
And I beg you baby
Don't be afraid, don't be afraid of me!
It's like you're sleeping in a cradle,
And, keeping you from harm,
My baby, I remember mine
A great debt to you.
My brain was on fire
And pain clouded my vision,
And the chest is cruel at that time
A swarm of ominous spirits tormented.
But, having awakened, having come to my senses,
How happy I am to see again
And feel your child
His living flesh and blood!
I have conquered a nightmare,
My boy is with me, only him.
To my chest, son, snuggle
With tender lips - they
As if from my heart
They draw out his sorrow.
Rest on my chest,
Touch her with your fingers:
Gives her relief
Your cool palm.
Your hand is fresh, light,
Like a breath of wind.
Love, love me baby!
You give happiness to your mother!
Don't be afraid of the evil waves below,
When I carry in my arms
You along the sharp ridges of rocks.
Rocks don't bode well for me
I'm not afraid of the roaring wave -
After all, you save my life.
Blessed am I, keeping the child:
He can't survive without me.
Don't be afraid, little one! Believe me,
Brave as a wild beast
I will be your counselor
Through the wilderness.
I'll arrange housing for you there,
From leaves - a soft bed.
And if you, my child,
You won’t leave your mother before the deadline, -
My beloved, in the depths of the forest
You will sing like a thrush in the spring.
Sleep on my chest, little bird!
Your father doesn't love her.
She faded and faded.
Well, my light, she is sweet to you.
She's yours. And it doesn't matter
That my beauty is gone:
You will always be faithful to me
And the fact that I became dark,
There is little benefit: after all, pale cheeks
You don't see mine, son.
Don't listen to lies, my love!
I married your father.
We will fill in the forest shade
Innocent life these days.
And he won't live with me,
When I neglected you.
But don't be afraid: he's not evil,
He himself is unhappy, God knows!
And every day with you alone
We will pray for him.
I will teach in the darkness of the forests
You to the night singing of owls.
The baby's lips are motionless.
You're probably full, my soul?
How strange they suddenly became confused
Your heavenly features!
My dear boy, your look is wild!
Aren't you crazy too?
Terrible sign! If this is so -
There is sadness and darkness in me forever.
Oh, smile, my lamb!
And calm down your dear mother!
I managed to overcome everything:
I searched for my father day and night,
I was threatened by spirits of darkness,
My house was a damp dugout.
But don't be afraid, honey, we
You and I will find your father in the forest.
All my life in the forest region,
Son, we will be like in heaven.”
Blessed is he who walks and turns away his gaze
From the area, whose colors and features
They call themselves to look closely,
Passing beautiful flowers.
He desires a different kind of space:
The space of dreams, the gentle call of dreams, -
As if instantly woven pattern
Between the brilliance and eclipse of beauty.
Love and Thought, invisible to the eyes,
They will leave us - and with the Muse in turn
We will hasten to say goodbye at the same hour.
As long as inspiration lives -
He will shed dew on the chant
The heavenly mind contained within us.
Evening scene dedicated to the same theme
Get up! Look up from your books, my friend!
Why fruitless languor?
Take a closer look around
Otherwise, reading will age you!
Here is the sun over the vastness of the mountains
Following the midday heat
Green flooded the space
Evening gentle yellowness.
How sweetly the oriole sings!
Hurry to listen to her! bird singing
Gives me more wisdom
Than these boring pages.
Listen to the Thrush's Sermon
Go to the green abode!
There you will be enlightened without difficulty:
Nature is your best teacher.
Its wonderful wealth
She gives to us with love.
And in her revelations
Fun breathes health.
To you about the essence of good
And human purpose
The spring winds will tell
And not sophisticated teachings.
After all, our lifeless language,
Our mind is in vain vanity
Natures distort their faces,
Tearing the beautiful world apart.
There is no need for arts or sciences.
In the pursuit of true knowledge
Teach your heart, my friend,
Attention and understanding.
Early in the morning or at one o'clock, when
The sunset is burning with the last blaze of light
And in the twilight of the evening the whole distance is dressed,
Look, thoughtful poet, then
To the waterfall, where the water is stormy,
Like a lion in a log, raging. No item
More terrible! The spirit of a terrible water cannon
In a crown of stone, curls, beard
Streams flow - he will sit over the urn,
Hiding your appearance during the day. It flows
An azure stream across the velvet meadows
Or, meeting granite on the way
Collapsed, mountain debris, thundering
And foams through them like a stormy wave.
From nests made in spring
Through the groves with birds, no one
You can't build with such beauty,
Like warblers housing.
There is no arch on top of it,
There are no doors either; but never
Bright light does not penetrate
Not a rain in the depths of the nest.
It's so cozy, so smart
Everything is adjusted, you know,
It’s been given to the warblers from above
The art of twisting like this
And hide nests from adversity
In such wilderness, in such shadow,
What even a hermit cannot find
For a cell the canopy is thicker.
They make nests in crevices
Ruins surrounded by ivy;
Then they are twisted in the reeds,
Hanging over the stream,
Where, so that the female does not get bored,
The male trills loudly
Or all day long father and mother
They sing to the beat of the stream;
Then they weave them in the clearings of the fishing line,
Where in a nest, like in an urn, is a treasure,
The mother hides the testicles while
It won't fly back.
But if the warblers are quite
Skillful in building their nests, -
Still, they are alone in choosing places
More skillful than others.
Such and such a bird was under the shadow,
There is a house made of moss hidden in that place,
Where he spread himself around like a deer,
Oak horn branches.
But apparently she couldn’t bear it
Hide your house with your mind:
She asked her to help
Forest initial bush,
Where the dwarf oak drooped its brow,
There in the heights, like a child's height,
Visible above a thick bush
That miracle between the nests.
I showed my treasure, proudly,
To friends who are capable without shame
Appreciate small things too. But once
I looked - there was no nest!
Dead! Apparently, the predator is evil,
The enemy of songs, truth and love,
Finished with a merciless hand
Here are your deeds!
But three days later, passing
In the bright sun the place is
I looked - and screamed like a child -
The nest is intact!
In front of him is a bush of a forest letter
Raised the sheets like sails
And this simple trick
My eyes were deceived. —
Sheltered from predatory hands,
Hiding from my friends,
So that your friend doesn’t bother you either
Hatching children -
Sit here, little warbler! And so,
As the children fly out and are empty
Your house will become, it will bloom
And the patron bush.
Don't forget how you are here
In a shady grove, in the rain and heat,
Shore, cherishing and loving,
Forest initial bush.
The Lord's peace, we see it everywhere,
And death will come, save or spend.
And we have so little in common with nature,
In our vile age we are busy with something else.
The sea plays with the golden moon,
The wind flutters, intoxicated with freedom,
Or sleeps and accumulates power before bad weather.
What's that to us? We are indifferent to them.
We are strangers to everything. Good God,
Why wasn’t I born into paganism!
Then, sacredly nourished by the oak grove,
I would see a dream of centuries past.
With me, the crafty Proteus would rise from the waves,
In my presence, Triton would blow into the twisted horn.
(true story)
What illness, what strength
And days and months in a row
So shakes Harry Gill,
Why are his teeth chattering?
Harry has no shortage
In vests, fur coats.
And everything that the patient is wearing,
It would have warmed nine people.
In April, in December, in June,
Whether it's hot, whether it's raining, whether it's snowing,
Under the sun or at full moon
Harry's teeth are still chattering!
It's the same with Harry all year round -
Both old and young talk about him:
During the day, in the morning, all night long
Harry's teeth are still chattering!
He was young and strong
For the cattle driver's craft:
There are slanting fathoms in his shoulders,
Blood and milk is his cheek.
And Goody Blake was old,
And everyone could tell you
What need did she live in?
How miserable her dark house is.
Thin shoulders behind the yarn
I didn’t straighten it day and night.
Alas, it happened, and on candles
She couldn't afford to save up.
Stood on the cold side
The hill is her frozen home.
And coal was at a high price
In a remote village.
She doesn't have a close friend
She has no one to share shelter and food with.
She, apparently, is in a beggar's shack
One will have to die.
Only on clear sunny days,
With the arrival of summer warmth,
Like a bird of the field,
She can be cheerful.
When will the streams be covered with ice?
Life is completely unbearable for her.
How the cruel frost burns her
And a shiver runs through my bones!
When it's so empty and dead
Her home at a late hour,
Oh guess what it's like
Don't close your eyes from the cold!
She rarely had happiness
When, around committing robbery,
Dry branches to her hut
And the night wind blew the wood chips away.
Not even the rumor mentioned
So that Goody can stock up for future use.
And she barely had enough firewood
Just for one day or two.
When frost pierces your veins
And the old bones ache -
Garden wattle Harry Gill
She is drawn to the look.
And so, having left my hearth,
As soon as the winter day fades away,
With a cold hand she
Feels for that fence.
But about old Goody's walks
Harry Gill guessed.
He mentally threatened her with punishment,
He decided to waylay Goody.
He went to stalk her
In the fields at night, in the snow, in a blizzard,
Leaving a warm home,
Leaving the hot bed.
And then one day behind the haystack
He lurked, cursing the frost.
Under the bright full moon
The frozen stubble crunched.
Suddenly he hears a noise and immediately
Descends from the hill like a shadow:
Yes, that's Goody Blake
She came to destroy the fence!
Harry was pleased with her diligence,
He blossomed with an evil smile,
And he waited until - pole by pole -
She will fill her hem.
When did she go without strength?
Back with your burden -
Harry Gill shouted fiercely
And he blocked her way.
And he grabbed her with his hand,
With a hand as heavy as lead,
With a strong and evil hand,
Crying out: “I finally got it!”
The full moon was shining.
I'll drop the luggage on the ground,
She prayed to the Lord,
Kneeling in the snow.
Falling into the snow, Goody prayed
And she raised her hands to the sky:
“Let him freeze forever!
Lord, deprive him of warmth!
This was her plea.
Harry Gill heard her -
And at the same moment from toes to forehead
A chill ran through him all over.
He was shaking all night, and in the morning
A trembling ran through him.
With a dull face and dull eyes
He didn't look like himself.
Didn't help save me from the cold
He's wearing a cab driver's sheepskin coat.
And he couldn’t keep warm in two,
And at three he was cold as a corpse.
Caftans, blankets, fur coats -
Everything is useless from now on.
Harry's teeth are chattering and chattering,
Like a window frame in the wind.
In winter and summer, in heat and snow
They knock, knock, knock!
He won't get warm forever! —
Both young and old talk about him.
He doesn't want to talk to anyone.
In the light of day, in the darkness of night
He just mutters pitifully
That he is very cold.
This is an extraordinary story
I told you truthfully.
May they be in your memory
And Goody Blake and Harry Gill!
Heavenly pilgrim and minstrel!
Does the earth seem unclean to you?
Or, flying high and scattering a trill,
Are you with your heart here with your nest in the dewy grass?
You fall into your nest among the grass,
Folding your wings, stopping singing!
To the limits of vision, fly higher,
Brave warbler! And a love song
The heights will not separate you from yours,
Enchant the valley from above!
Alone you can sing among the blue,
Not bound by a tangle of foliage.
Leave the shady forest for the nightingale;
Among the rays is your solitude;
Your harmony is more divine,
Over the world pouring into ecstasy.
So the sage soars, not trying to go into the distance
And in the sky keeping in touch with home!
Having forgotten myself, I thought in my sleep,
What about the running years
Over the one who is dearest to me,
From now on there is no power.
She's in the grave's cradle
Forever destined
With mountains, sea and grass
Rotate at the same time.
The earth is in bloom and the sky is clear,
The buzzing of bees, the slow flock,
And the sound of rain, and the sound of a waterfall,
And the maturity of the cornfields, and the departure of late birds.
I remember everything, but sleep doesn’t come,
You don't have to wait long for dawn.
The chirping of the morning garden will burst in,
The cuckoo will begin its sad counting.
For two nights I've been fighting a running dream
I didn’t sleep a wink, and today - this!
The morning will come - what a joy there is in it,
When I didn’t sleep and toiled until daylight.
Come, set a line between day and day,
Guardian of the poet's strength and clear thoughts!
A story for fathers, or how you can cultivate the habit of lying
My boy is handsome and slender -
He's only five.
And a tender loving soul
He's a match for an angel.
At our house together
We walked with him at an early hour,
Talking about this and that,
As is customary with us.
I remembered the distant land,
Our house last spring.
And the shore of Kilva is like paradise,
Appeared in front of me.
And I saved so much happiness,
That, turning back in thought,
On this day I could without pain
Remember the past.
Dressed simply, without embellishment,
My boy was handsome and sweet.
I'm with him, as before many times,
He spoke carelessly.
The lambs ran gracefully
Against the backdrop of a sunny day.
“Our Lisvin, like the Kilva coast,
Wonderful,” I said.
“Do you prefer this house? —
I asked the baby. —
Or the one on the seashore?
Answer, my soul!
And where do you live, in what region
If you would like more, please answer:
On the Kilva seashore
Or in Lisvin, my light?
He looked up at me
And the look was full of innocence:
“I would like to live by the sea,
Near the green waves."
“But, dear Edward, why?
Tell me, my boy, why?
“I don’t know,” was his answer, “
And I myself don’t understand...”
“Why is this grace
Forests and sunny meadows
You are reckless to exchange
Are you ready for the sea’s Kilv?”
But, looking away embarrassed,
He didn't answer anything.
I repeated five times in a row:
“Tell me why?”
Suddenly the baby raised his head,
And, attracted by the bright shine,
Saw it on one of the roofs
He is a sparkling weather vane.
And a moment later his answer,
The long-awaited one was this:
“The whole point is that in Kilva there is no
These roosters."
I wouldn't dream of becoming wiser
When, my dear son,
What I learned from you,
I could teach myself.
Shake off the sleep of the grave, arise, poet!
Your soul was a shining star
Your voice was like a light wave of the sea -
Mighty, and free, and ringing;
You firmly followed the path of life.
Be the rising dawn for us again,
Be a torch above the vague crowd!
What secrets does passion know!
But only to those of you
Who himself has tasted the power of love,
I'll trust you with my story.
When, like a rose of spring days,
My love bloomed
I rushed to her on a date,
The moon floated with me.
I followed the moon with my eyes
Across bright skies.
And my horse ran merrily -
He knew the way himself.
Finally, here is the orchard,
Running up the slope.
The familiar smooth slope roof
Illuminated by the moon.
Captured by the sweet power of sleep,
I didn't hear hooves
And I just saw that the moon
Stands on the hut
Hoof by hoof, horse
I walked up the slope.
But suddenly the moon's fire went out,
He disappeared behind the roof.
Longing has filled my heart,
The light had just gone out.
"What if Lucy died?" —
I said it for the first time.
I hear your two-tone moan,
Here lying on the grass;
Near, far - he is everywhere
In the airy blue.
He brings news to the valleys
About the sun, about flowers,
And for me - a magical sweet dream
About the wonderful past days.
Captivate my ears like never before!
Until now, guest of the valleys,
You are not my bird; no, you're a spirit
Riddle, one sound, -
That sound that in the old days
Like a schoolboy I searched
Everywhere, in the sky and in the shadows
Trees, and in the depths of rocks.
It used to be everywhere all day
I wander in forests and meadows;
I'm looking everywhere, but nowhere
I can't find you.
So now I'm glad to listen
Your cry in the forest shadows.
I'm waiting to see if they'll come back
Long gone are the days.
And again the world seems to me
Some kind of kingdom of dreams,
Where did you come, as if to a feast,
You, spring guest of the forests!
There was a boy. You were familiar with it, the cliffs
And the Wynandra Islands! How many times
In the evenings, just above the tops
The hills will be lit by the sparks of the early stars
In the dark azure, he stood, it happened,
In the shade of the trees, above the shining lake.
And there, crossing your fingers and palm
Bringing it together with your palm like a tube,
He brought it to his lips and shouted
The peace in the forest was disturbed by the dense owls.
And to his call, from all sides,
Over the watery plain there was a sound
Their wild cry, piercing and sharp.
And a ringing whistle, and laughter, and in the mountains
The rolling hum of an echo - wonderful sounds
Magic choir! When, after that,
Suddenly there was silence, he often
In the silence of nature, on the rocks,
I myself felt an involuntary trembling in my heart,
Hearing a murmur somewhere far away
Mountain springs. Wonderful picture
Then the soul in him delighted
With its solemn beauty, with its
Cliffs, forests, warm skies,
In the abyss of the waters, unclearly reflected.
He's already gone! The poor thing died early
At the age of nine he left his peers.
Oh, how beautiful the quiet valley is,
Where was he born? All covered with ivy,
A church hangs from the rocks above the village school.
And if it happens to me on a summer evening
Walk through the cemetery, I'm ready
Stand there for an hour deep in thought
Over the quiet grave where he sleeps.
Stay close, abort the flight!
Let my gaze freeze on you!
Every moment was recreated by you
My earliest days!
And time that is long dead
enlivened by you
Fluttering Creature:
I see my father
with my whole family.
Oh, the sweetness, the sweetness of childhood years,
When following a moth
My sister and I fled
Excited by the game.
I, like a hunter, lay in wait
I got the booty - but it was in vain
My run, desperate jump:
God guarded jealously
pollen from lovely wings.