There was a violin's woe during a ball.Breathing with wine and blood,The rebellion awful soulWas dictating a fate to us.From the alien countries, distant lands,Merging in our snow fire-bed,In the circle of the dark-eyed madmen...

To Anna AkhmatovaBy Alexander Blok"And the beauty is terrible" - You'd be told to, -Then You'll put on lazilyOn your shoulders the spain shawl,And a scarlet rose - in hair."And the beauty is simple" - ...

And again - the gusts of early years,And bursts of power, extremety of thoughts...But there's no happiness - as ever.Though you don't have a doubt long!Go all the dangerous years through.You're waylaid - everywhere.But if you'r...

Good poems torment me much,Bad ones - are nice without reason:They can't sting souls, nor they bite,They have the warmth of home, isn't it?So - that's a real lemonad, of course,(They're light, as a silk morning gown).And qenius...

Good poems torment me much,Bad ones - are nice without reason:They can't sting souls, nor they bite,They have the warmth of home, isn't it?So - that's a real lemonad, of course,(They're light, as a silk morning gown).And qenius...

I understood, you wanted evil notTo me, you were somehow fair.You were, as thruth, only a boy,Who couldn't go out of a budget.Don't feel aggrieved, that's not for your reproach,You are, as such, sweet to my heart as ever.Good -...

I understood, you wanted evil notTo me, you were somehow fair.You were, as thruth, only a boy,Who couldn't go out of a budget.Don't feel aggrieved, that's not for your reproach,You are, as such, sweet to my heart as ever.Good -...

To warm light, to my paternal thresholdYour wistful sigh pulls me as a rein old.There on porch my grandfather, grandmotherWait their frisky grandson, aged to sunflower.Their grandson is slim, white as birch, honey hair,His hand...

To warm light, to my paternal thresholdYour wistful sigh pulls me as a rein old.There on porch my grandfather, grandmotherWait their frisky grandson, aged to sunflower.Their grandson is slim, white as birch, honey hair,His hand...

Oh my land, forgotten been,Oh my land, been waste,Hayfield, all without bevelling,Thicket and convent.Houses had crooked aside,They are only five.Their roofs had foamed upTo the dawn's wet dike.Under the straw-chasuble...