Kaliningrad hunting club
.
Epifanych went through the woods into a strange volost... A cloudy shadow from a passing train briefly cut off from a bright spot of ripening rye the tall gray figure of an old man with a gun... - In the utter wilderness, you see, these cast-iron animals have gone! - he said aloud out of habit and dug in his ear with an earkop after the beast screamed for a long time with an iron throat. - Mumbled, epishina mother! And, remembering, he became worried: he saw that before the train appeared, his beloved dog Grunka was chasing a hare along the canvas. - Grunka! Evo-oh, evo-oh!.. There was no dog, and she did not run to the old man's cry. Epifanych, hurriedly going around the rye, walked along the edge to where the hare had last flashed, climbed onto the canvas and saw: not far on the rails lay the back of the dog, mutilated, with its intestines torn out, and the front - with its tongue hanging out - slid down a slope. - Oh, you, shtob cha! epishin's son... - The old man clasped his hands, his long shadow along the yellow slope also swayed all over, waved: - Farewell, Grunka! here are those and Grunka! He bowed his head, fell silent; he went into the forest, and for some reason the old woman's wedding lament over the bride sounded in her ears: Come on, you birds, iron noses ... You pull out, birds, silky nails! "Yes, well ... here they are, birds, iron noses ... here they are, animals, snakes of Gorynych, from them the forest will be transferred - the desert ... The beast with iron tanks will emerge from the distant distances, and in the place of the eaten forests the beast will build his lair with cast-iron gates ... He will roar with a copper roar, iron animals will go in different directions, they will begin to take away sawn wood and moss-purdue, and they will bring in colored dishes, patterned glass ..." Epifanych turned around, took off his hat and listened for a long time, bowing his stubborn head, the distant, vague tapping of wheels and the echoes of fading horns. I went back home through the forest, which was considered impassable by many. The old man lived far away from the cast-iron. Some resentment smoldered in him; resentment is vague, but sometimes inexplicably prickly. And when he went to bed by the fire, after eating, before closing his eyes to sleep, he remembered: "Grunka! Oh, you are dear!" The old man dreamed the same thing on the way: the iron beast of the swamp blows up - drains them. And Epifanych, having ascended to the bell tower, sees how the swamps have dried up - quicksand wastelands, and together with them springs and forest rivers have dried up. He sees the old man rushing about - they are looking for water, the cattle bellows and roars - he asks for a drink, and new people come, stand on a dry plain, wave their hands and order to plow the dry places with a plow. - Hey, motherfucker! What will you fertilize? - Epifanych cries out in a dream and always wakes up, and when he wakes up, he remembers: "Oh, you Grunka! After all, it was slaughtered! An iron beast, shtob him ... "He sleeps again, and in the morning gets up for a new path, makes a fire, eats porridge, feels on the collar a copper earkop, the one that hangs on a dirty cord instead of a cross, picks at his ears, overgrown with gray fluff, and he says aloud, looking at the sky: "You see that... To the wet, apparently, his ears are stuffed up. He is walking. The seasoned pines make a slight noise with their peaks: the early sun plays on the peaks with the ebb of their wet boughs. The boundless distance turns blue between the red and gray trunks; it smells of wild rosemary, it sips cloudberries from the lowlands; under its bast shoes, staining the birch bark in a bloody color, blueberries crumple. - Look, the mountain ash begins to give paint, you won’t see it - and summer will blow ... which is already forever? .. Epifanych drove away, passing , a herd of skewed ones, one black grouse clung to the bough of a pine, pulled its shy head between its wings and clucks. The old man habitually froze in place, only slowly pulls his gun from behind his back. no shot.The old man looks, but the gun has no trigger: trigger, screw rusted. "Of course, epish mother! The gun does not hit, the dog was stabbed to death." He felt the ax behind the belt: "Here!" He took out his cap and filled his pipe. I lit up. Threw the match; lit dry brushwood: it crackled. He pressed his bast shoes, put it out and said, loudly as always: - And what if everything is burned down? a light wind makes the young birches bend - they bow to Epifanych, as if they guessed his cruel thought: "Have mercy, old man! Didn't we welcome you here? Didn't you warm yourself in the rains and come to life in the warmth?" - Yes, but ... not you! - understanding what the trees think, Epifanych says sternly, goes into the bright light and goes out to the shore of the lake. Width - barely a glance is enough. Under the old man's feet is a high, mossy shore; Beyond the lake the distance is blue, and from there an even bluer forest cloud is moving towards the lake. Epifanych threw down his gun, pulled the ax out of his belt and paused, wrinkling his stubborn forehead: "Animals will flee from these places from their holes ... a bird will circle over the nests until it burns down ..." The old man passionately wanted to see the fluttering, hot wings of the conflagration . Listen to how the burnt heavy pines fall, look, maybe for the last time, how the moss lights up with separate lights, like candles, flares up, goes out - crawls low, low like a golden snake and rises again like a candle. And the old man knows that people with axes, with shovels, will not come here, although give me a pound of gold. He also knows that when the forest burns down and a storm follows the conflagration, it will fall out, break everything that has not burned down, but does not hold well on the burnt earth. Epifanych found tar, he hewed it; he took out the gut in an old large stump to make it better, and with a skillful hand laid out the tarry wood chips inside the stump: "Here you are, young people - reign! .." lay her shadow. And as soon as he had time to take off his hat and stand under a dense spruce, thunder struck, and lightning flashed across the water with fiery scattered cracks. Thunder roared, and a century-old pine tree broke apart with a dry crack from lightning and collapsed. - Went padera - epishina mother! It twisted, dropped, broke dry land like a whirlwind, and muffled echoes from the mossy forest desert went to the surging blue lake with white reflections of lightning. For three hours Epifanych waited for the end of the storm. When it fell silent, the sun opened and the blue distance, even more fragrant, beckoned to him, the old man gathered his butt and, walking around the shore of the lake, thought aloud: - Before winter, then, son of Epishin, go home! And there in the forest, you didn’t bring him out ... He won’t forgive you - he will wash you to death ... you’ll see! An old hut at Epifanych. The ceiling in the hut was black, but the women bleached it. The ceiling is high. A tent was attached to the black mouth of the furnace, and a new chimney was laid along the furnace - the chimney was boarded up. Epifanych opposed the innovation, but what to do, the young reign in the house - they insisted: - Very much, every shovel is dirty and smells of smoke. - But the hut, epish mother, will soon rot with your new one. - Oh, old man! A hundred-year prison, but the tenants go there by force. The benches remained the same, wide, grandfathers' heavy backsides on the benches were driven out. On the benches in front, patterns are cut out, as in boyars' chambers... Epifanych's dry, pale feet stick out from the stove, and calluses on his fingers are dried. The long torso of an old man in a white homespun shirt stretched out over the stove; a lush beard glows, moving with his breath, - the old man is delirious in a dream ... Epifanych dreams of the past: here he is, drunk, in a red red shirt, in white trousers, entwined to the knees with belted frills of bast shoes, with a stake in his hands, goes ahead of his men to a foreign village. - Don't give up, epish mother! the old man cries hoarsely in his sleep. He knows that everyone is afraid of his powers. - Why did you look at the goose?! Not five! - And he sees: everyone is running away from him, and no one dares to get involved in a fight. - Yeah, that's right, epishin's son! In the woods. One Epifanych goes to the bear, - in his hand is a knife, the other is wrapped in an ox skin. - Daikos, come on, grandfather, let's get together! There is noise, crackling in the forest, a storm knocks down trees, and in green and blue white fire shines - lightning. Epifanych goes, his hat is torn off his head, he ruffles his hair, and he, without raising his hat, shouts and whistles to the dog: - Aaa! Ltd! - and wakes up ... ... Epifanych stopped sleeping on the stove, looks inquisitively at the windows, hears - people rustle like spring. Going on a journey, he understands that nature will soon pull the winter road out from under his feet. - Don't be late, motherfucker! - grumbles the old one, in a white row, in white felt boots, getting up on skis. His round-shouldered, but broad-boned girlfriend straightens her husband's awkwardly sitting pester with grub behind her husband. - It's hard for me, old man, to equip you, if you were sitting at home! Epifanych is silent. Goes to the forest, looks around; draws, like a beast, the air into itself and does not smoke. The old man sees how, feeling the spring, over the white banks of the non-freezing stream, drakes that have taken off in some places are quacking - wintering birds in the North. Seeing the ducks, a hunting husky will wander through the melted snow, squeal, carefully sniffing the melted shores. "Oh, Grunka! I'm sorry ..." By spring, the nights are lighter, but the old man knows that one cannot get to the forest hut on leather skis, and sleeps by the fire: cooks porridge on snowy water, eats later, pulling felt boots from his feet, warms stockings and shoes. He sleeps, he sees a dream: on a white field, surrounded at a distance by green fire, like a young bush, someone has done extensive bluish circles on white, - he asks himself: - Episha's son! Isn't this your ski track? With the dawn, he gets up, leaves the dying fire to smolder, walks, looking in the forest at high places, the thawed patches that have begun to turn green, and when he passes through deep snow, snowdrifts settle under him with a dull rustle. Epifanych, examining the tracks of the animals, grumbles loudly: - If you could knock off Kunichka, the gun will take a small animal, but the snow is still deep ... yes! There are no marten marks, but the old man sees others, large ones, deeply depressed to black bark. - Elk? you see, it wanders to the bottom ... come on, moose! He won’t take a gun, but I know his habit: it’s hard for him - it’s easy for me to ski; I'll sit on the horns - and with an ax. Hot. He took off his fur hat - the sun is hot, and, sniffing the air, he feels how from the blue forest distance he sips the smell of early grass on thawed patches. Some bird squeaks close on the bare branches of birches. Kosachs yell, the current begins; blue, cobweb-thin shadows from bare branches lie on forest glades. Partridges turn white with large pearls, flying over glades and clearings, falling into the snow, bluish plains are full of terry, pawled patterns of traces. Epifanych stopped, looked at the partridge, but immediately said stubbornly: - You go after the elk - there's nothing to do with the bird! Epifanych is sitting by the fire on a stump, dozing, the strong beast begged him. The old man is dreaming of the old - not of the present, but of the past. The green wall of blooming rye - it obscured the horizon half yellow from dawn in the field, and on its golden background one can see multi-colored figures of women in festive clothes, among the women the most prominent is his busty wife Stepanida, in her hand shines like a crescent silver, a new sickle. In a slumber, the old man moves towards the golden field of sunset - he pokes into the fire, burns his hands, his yellowish-white beard crackles; smells of sheepskin currant from the hat. When he wakes up, he realizes that he has slipped off the stump. He takes off the line from the sheepskin coat, takes off the sheepskin coat and, lounging by the fire on a woolen sheepskin, hiding behind the line, again dozes. He hears that the wind is going through the forest, it is sprinkled with leafy rain all around, the trees are groaning, others are crackling like a wood grouse on a current: tra-a! tra-a! The old man sees, through the branches of trees, the water of lakes shines, and he thinks: is the moon mooning? It's not water - it's ice! - And where is my prey - elk? Sleeping like me, exhausted? I know - you're going fast, but you won't help! You’re afraid, beast, chase - you don’t drink on the run and at the lodging for the night, you don’t eat, because you smell death ... And here I’ll chew porridge, oatmeal, and it’s bad, but I’ll sleep, with the dawn in the course ... Quietly delirious - the years have diminished, I'll come across when you're emaciated... I'll come across, episha mother! From a mile ahead and a little to the side, an elk is sensitively sleeping - a beast ... He is sleeping sweaty, and his sides are icy, the night is cold - the wool has caught frost, it has turned gray from dark. The large stomach of the beast is empty. Bitter in the mouth, saliva flows and freezes. Sometimes he lowers his warm muzzle into the white grave of snow, chills him with malice, he wants to eat all the snow on the way in order to run easier, and knows that the snow is deep, his strong legs do not reach the bottom. Under the snow tenacious pricks and cuts, tears wool and meat. The beast doesn’t want to eat - care with fear nests deep somewhere, drives it forward, makes it run faster, and less and less strength, and add sweat ... The beast trembles during the day while walking and at night in an anxious dream ... It draws in a smell alien to the forest , and understands that it is close, it is terrible, inescapable, similar to birch stumps... He does not know where it comes from? Maybe it came from the tops of the trees with the wind. Sometimes, when grasses bloom in the forest, the light burns from above, then it also knocks above, scorches hot, terrible trees, and they fall, and what comes after it also sparkles; sometimes knocks and pricks on burning meat and does not allow to run. Fatigue closes the beast's icy eyelashes, closes its fearful, weeping eyes, and the beast imagines a hot day. Clouds of buzzing, prickling to the point of itching will stick around the body. So he shook himself, shook his horned head, ran, and a swarm of piercing ones flew after him in a noisy cloud. The moose ran to the lake, wandered into the water up to his ears, rested in the coolness, and the buzzing creature disappeared. At ease to the beast on the rapids of the mouth of a forest river in the lake, the water rinses the sides corroded into the blood, only the legs suck in the liquid bottom, the elk pulls up its legs to swim. The sound of water is all around. The animal moves its ears in a dream, and the ears convey anxiety to the eyes. Opening his eyes, the moose realizes that it is not the water that makes noise, but the wooden long paws of a terrible thing that follows him and brings him death ... Before going to bed, the moose, as always, out of precaution, went forward, and turned back to sleep, but did not straight ahead, but to the side, so as to hear when they follow in his footsteps, and, not allowing the enemy to reach the end of the loop, rush to the side ... blackening bark curls, like a terrible evidence, to where he went. The moose throws clods of snow in all directions, breaks the branches on the way with its horns, and death runs lightly along the top of the snow on sliding paws, and the moose smells it close by. - Seventh night! - Epifanych grumbles. - Grub comes out ... He didn’t drive the beast ... Strong - it breaks the snow, breaks the bark ... I also started to get sick, but you won’t leave, mother of epic, - I’ll drive ... snow, you see, deep-ka-ay ... I'll drive it! .. Eh, brother teapots, you started spitting - are you boiling? Epifanych has one concern - to reach the beast, to stretch it, but where he goes - there is no concern, he will finish it - then he will look around. He knows the forest, he will come out to the house. The only bad thing is that the forest began to thin out. Not far away, a driven beast wanders - its legs are skinned to the meat, shreds of wool hang on its belly, and the blood drips, the snow bleeds. In the snow, saliva flows from the mouth without ceasing. Behind him, slowly, saving his strength, Epifanych slips and thinks about when the beast will not go, but will stand quietly, waiting for death. Epifanych smokes on the move and does not take off his gun from his shoulders. The gun will not kill, but only frighten and, look, it will add extra strength to the beast, and suddenly the old man shouted: - Look at you, you motherfucker! Epifanych sees that the beast has wandered out onto the mosses. The hunter knows the place, he knows that these mosses are endless; Ice-free lakes glitter on the mosses. The wind picked up as soon as they reached the plain, it blows snow dust in the face, the old man's eyes water from the wind, and his legs freeze on skis - the cold comes from below. - Yes, here, podikos, from the youth of a person from toe to navel takes heat. .. In old age, the same bottom freezes to the navel, and from this there is little life left for a person in the world. An elk wanders ahead, obediently lowered its horned head, sometimes it will only bend low, get enough snow in its mouth and shake off the overcoming saliva from its muzzle. - Soon you are a dead man - episha mother! And he led me that even the grub would not be enough to get home. The sun seemed to be a white club for a short while, and soon melted into gray clouds. Gloomy, cold. The constant wind walks across the plain and sings its free, age-old songs. - For a century you sing like a faceless robber, do not catch you, do not put you on a chain ... You freeze your face, your hands, your legs shiver ... From your winter hoots - mother of epistle! - the tooth does not fall on the tooth, but you, I suppose, have fun? Al getting dark? And then ... let your prey go, it's not in the forest here - you can see where it has become; I'm not bad at warming my bones. The old man reached a bunch of stunted pines that a lonely family settled in the white desert. Pester dropped, took off his gun, and began to prepare a lodging for the night. And the elk, as if spellbound, turned a few steps aside and not far, twenty sazhens from the old man, bent his bloody legs in the snow, lay down, bending his head to one side, with one eye in the direction of the enemy, laid his head on the snow and appointed sentinel ear sticking up. The old man moves - the elk ear moves, but the eye sleeps. Damp pines burn badly. The wind restlessly throws a timid flame with white fluff, the fire hisses from the snow, does not flare up. The old man's legs are getting cold, and his whole body demands a hot warmness, and Epifanych grumbles, making the elk's ear move anxiously: She led me into a slum ... there is no dry place! Epifanych reached into the pestle with his hand and remembered: there is no butter, no oatmeal, only crackers rummage on the birch bark of the purse - that's all, brother, to the end! Somehow the old man boiled a teapot with tea, wetted it, chewed crackers - hungry. He started to boil water. A white padera has risen in the mossy swamps, sweeping prickly dust in heaps, and from the white dust in Epifanych's eyes the pillars are either blue or green, and he does not see anything ahead, only clearly, when the blizzard is interspersed, he lies and stirs in front of him, as if on the tablecloth, moose ear. - You stunted fire! Let me add you, u ... Epifanych furiously cuts the dry, frozen kokorina, hastily puts it into the fading fire. The old man has a lot of strength, but the cold overcomes and his teeth chatter. The teeth are still half intact, and the hair is gray only in the beard, but the blood is not the same. - Shut up, mother fucker! Look, you’ll suffocate, if it is ... without dry land, without pitch, - small hope. And you suffered! .. But I won’t back down, you’re lying! Without tar, the wind will throw snow on the fire and you, episha mother, will bury you with your head. In order not to lose it in the snow, he put the ax to the tree, took off the line, took off the short fur coat, lay down by the fire on the short fur coat, with his feet towards the elk, and put his head higher on a stump, covered himself tightly with the line and tucked his sides. As soon as he lay down, drowsiness began to pour in, but the importunate thought did not give rest: “Don’t sleep through the fire, epishin’s son! Fire! Do you remember? fire! the old man was about to spread it on the other, too, but the damp tree did not start ... In the distance, in the milky-white twilight, an elk ear sticks up, a furry one sticks out and does not move. - you're finished!.. If the fire is intact - I'll get up at dawn... Extinguished - you'll go... The wind helps you... lives, causes the smell of the way... I understand everything about you... The wind doesn't love me - I am a man and I force him to work for myself, but he is free ... Wind, elk, forest, bear - my own ... I am a stranger, I am a man ... I have strength ... you have help - strength and wind ... Epifanych lies on the moss, does not sleep, but he sees far away, clearly sees - his legs grow, stretched out across the white plain and heels rested on the lake, which sparkles with non-freezing water through the white mists, and Epifanych's feet grow colder and colder less. A fire burns on the side, but it has turned green and rises like a sparkling ice floe ... Today, with the dawn, the elk was the first to rise - it went slowly, slowly. The man became worried and also somehow warmed up - he got up, leaving his gun and motley at the lodging for the night, and it began to get dark - the man lay down on his skis, without taking off either the row or the sheepskin coat. The beast obediently lay down three fathoms from the man, but the man, having an ax, was unable to move towards him, to finish off the prey. With the dawn again, the elk was the first to rise. He staggered on his bloody legs, licked his icy side and snorted warily in the direction of the man. The old man, having gathered his strength, shouted: - You see, I'm lying, episha mother! Lie down ... I'll still warm myself under the snow ... During the night the wind swept snow on the old man - it's warm under the snow ... The elk, staggering, wandered to the first lake; came, looked back, got drunk, wandered into the water and slowly swam to the other side, from where there was a smell of distant forest and forest thawed patches.
Sergey Yesenin
I'm going. Quiet. Calls are heard.
Under the hoof in the snow
Only gray crows
Made a noise in the meadow.
Bewitched by the invisible
The forest slumbers under the fairy tale of sleep,
Like a white scarf
The pine has tied up.
Bent over like an old lady
Leaned on a stick
And above the crown
The woodpecker hammers at the bitch.
The horse is galloping, there is a lot of space,
Snow falls and spreads a shawl.
Endless road
Runs off into the distance.
White verses
Sergei Mikhalkov
The snow is spinning
Snow falls -
Snow! Snow! Snow!
Happy snow beast and bird
And, of course, the man!
Happy gray titmouse:
Birds freeze in the cold
Snow fell - frost fell!
The cat washes its nose with snow.
Puppy on a black back
White snowflakes are melting.
The sidewalks are covered
Everything around is white-white:
Snow-snow-snowfall!
Enough business for shovels,
For shovels and scrapers,
For big trucks.
The snow is spinning
Snow falls -
Snow! Snow! Snow!
Happy snow beast and bird
And, of course, the man!
Only a janitor, only a janitor
Says: - I am this Tuesday
I will never forget!
Snowfall is a problem for us!
All day the scraper scrapes,
The broom sweeps all day long.
A hundred sweats have left me
And the circle is white again!
Snow! Snow! Snow!
Winter magic is coming...
Alexander Pushkin
The magic winter is coming
Came, crumbled into shreds
Hanging on the branches of oaks,
She lay down with wavy carpets
Among the fields around the hills.
A shore with a motionless river
Leveled with a plump veil;
Frost flashed, and we are glad
Leprosy mother winter.
Winter night
Boris Pasternak
Do not correct the day with the efforts of the luminaries,
Do not raise the shadows of baptismal bedspreads.
It's winter on earth, and the smoke of the lights is powerless
Straighten the houses that have fallen flat.
Bulbs of lanterns and donuts of roofs, and black
By white in the snow - the jamb of the mansion:
This is a manor house, and I am a tutor in it.
I'm alone - I sent the student to sleep.
Nobody is waiting. But - tightly curtain.
The pavement is in mounds, the porch is swept up.
Memory, don't worry! Grow with me! Believe!
And assure me that I am one with you.
Are you talking about her again? But I'm not excited about that.
Who opened the dates for her, who put her on the trail?
That blow is the source of everything. Before the rest
By her grace, I don't care now.
Pavement in the mounds. Between snow ruins
Frozen bottles of naked black ice floes.
Bulbs of lanterns. and on the pipe, like an owl,
Sunk in feathers, unsociable smoke.
December morning
Fedor Tyutchev
In the sky a month - and night
Yet the shadow did not move,
Reigns itself, not realizing
That the day has already started, -
What though lazy and timid
Beam after beam
And the sky is still all over
At night it shines with triumph.
But two or three moments won't pass,
The night will evaporate over the earth,
And in full splendor of manifestations
Suddenly, the daytime world will embrace us ...
Winter road
A.S. Pushkin
Through the wavy mists
The moon is creeping
To sad glades
She pours a sad light.
On the winter road, boring
Troika greyhound runs
Single bell
Tiring noise.
Something is heard native
In the coachman's long songs:
That revelry is remote,
That heartache....
No fire, no black hut,
Wilderness and snow .... To meet me
Only miles striped
Come across alone...
Bored, sad ..... tomorrow, Nina,
Returning to my dear tomorrow,
I'll forget by the fireplace
I look without looking.
Sounding hour hand
He will make his measured circle,
And, removing the boring ones,
Midnight won't separate us.
It's sad, Nina: my path is boring,
Dremlya fell silent my coachman,
The bell is monotonous
Foggy moon face.
Winter night
Boris Pasternak
Melo, melo all over the earth
To all limits.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
Like a swarm of midges in summer
Flying into the flame
Flakes flew from the yard
to the window frame.
Snowstorm sculpted on glass
Circles and arrows.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
On the illuminated ceiling
The shadows lay
Crossed arms, crossed legs,
Crossing fates.
And two shoes fell
With a knock on the floor.
And wax with tears from the night light
Drip on the dress.
And everything was lost in the snow haze
Gray and white.
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
The candle blew from the corner,
And the heat of temptation
Raised like an angel two wings
Crosswise.
Melo all month in February,
And every now and then
The candle burned on the table
The candle was burning.
dilapidated hut
Alexander Blok
dilapidated hut
All covered in snow.
old grandmother
Looks out the window.
For the naughty grandchildren
Knee-deep snow.
Cheerful for the kids
Fast sled running...
running, laughing,
Making a snow house
ringing loudly
Voices all around...
In the snow house
Rough game...
Fingers get cold
It's time to go home!
Drink tea tomorrow
Looking out the window -
But the house has melted,
It's spring outside!
Sergey Yesenin
White birch
under my window
covered with snow,
Exactly silver.
On fluffy branches
snow border
Brushes blossomed
White fringe.
And there is a birch
In sleepy silence
And the snowflakes are burning
In golden fire
A dawn, lazy
Walking around,
Sprinkles branches
New silver.
Wonderful picture...
Athanasius Fet
wonderful picture,
How are you related to me?
white plain,
Full moon,
the light of the heavens above,
And shining snow
And distant sleigh
Lonely run.
Winter
Sergey Yesenin
Autumn has flown away
And winter came.
As on wings, flew
She is suddenly invisible.
Here the frost crackled
And they forged all the ponds.
And the boys screamed
Thanks to her for her hard work.
Here come the patterns
On glasses of wondrous beauty.
Everyone fixed their eyes
Looking at it. From high
Snow falls, flashes, curls,
Lies down with a veil.
Here the sun flashes in the clouds,
And the frost on the snow sparkles.
Where is the sweet whisper...
Evgeny Baratynsky
Where is the sweet whisper
my forests?
murmuring streams,
Meadow flowers?
The trees are bare;
Carpet winters
Covered the hills
Meadows and valleys.
Under the ice
With your bark
The stream is numb;
Everything is numb
Only the evil wind
Raging, howling
And the sky covers
Gray haze.
Why, yearning
I'm watching through the window
Blizzards fly?
To the darling of happiness
Blood from bad weather
It gives.
crackling fire
In my oven;
His rays
And flying dust
I'm having fun
Careless look.
I dream in silence
Before the live
His game
And I forget
I am the storm.
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维基 百科 正在 使 网站 更加 安全 您 正在 使用 旧 的 ， 这 在 将来 无法 连接 维基百科。 更新 您 的 设备 或 您 的 的 管理员。 提供 更 长 ， 具 技术性 的 更新 仅 英语 英语 英语 英语 英语 英语 英语 英语 英语 HI ）。
Espanol: Wikipedia está haciendo el sitio más seguro. Usted está utilizando un navegador web viejo que no será capaz de conectarse a Wikipedia en el futuro. Actualice su dispositivo o contacte a su administrador informático. Más abajo hay una actualizacion más larga y más técnica en inglés.
ﺎﻠﻋﺮﺒﻳﺓ:
ويكيبيديا تسعى لتأمين الموقع أكثر من ذي قبل. أنت تستخدم متصفح وب قديم لن يتمكن من الاتصال بموقع ويكيبيديا في المستقبل. يرجى تحديث جهازك أو الاتصال بغداري تقنية المعلومات الخاص بك. يوجد تحديث فني أطول ومغرق في التقنية باللغة الإنجليزية تاليا.
Francais: Wikipedia va bientôt augmenter la securité de son site. Vous utilisez actuellement un navigateur web ancien, qui ne pourra plus se connecter à Wikipédia lorsque ce sera fait. Merci de mettre à jour votre appareil ou de contacter votre administrateur informatique à cette fin. Des informations supplementaires plus techniques et en anglais sont disponibles ci-dessous.
日本語:
ウィキペディア で は サイト の セキュリティ を て い ます。 ご 利用 の は バージョン が 古く 、 今後 、 ウィキペディア 接続 でき なく なる 可能 性 が ます デバイス を する 、 、 管理 管理 者 ご ください。 技術 面 の 更新 更新 更新 更新 更新 更新 更新 更新 更新 詳しい 詳しい 詳しい 詳しい HIP 情報は以下に英語で提供しています。
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हिन्दी:
विकिपीडिया साइट को और अधिक सुरक्षित बना रहा है। आप एक पुराने वेब ब्राउज़र का उपयोग कर रहे हैं जो भविष्य में विकिपीडिया से कनेक्ट नहीं हो पाएगा। कृपया अपना डिवाइस अपडेट करें या अपने आईटी व्यवस्थापक से संपर्क करें। नीचे अंग्रेजी में एक लंबा और अधिक तकनीकी अद्यतन है।
We are removing support for insecure TLS protocol versions, specifically TLSv1.0 and TLSv1.1, which your browser software relies on to connect to our sites. This is usually caused by outdated browsers, or older Android smartphones. Or it could be interference from corporate or personal "Web Security" software, which actually downgrades connection security.
You must upgrade your web browser or otherwise fix this issue to access our sites. This message will remain until Jan 1, 2020. After that date, your browser will not be able to establish a connection to our servers.
The presented lyrics are rather small in volume. But this does not mean that you can quickly and superficially read the verse “Wonderful Picture” by Fet Afanasy Afanasyevich. Despite its brevity, the poem carries a serious semantic load.
When creating this work, dated 1842, the author implemented an interesting idea. The poet did not use a single verb in the text, but at the same time the resulting picture feels quite dynamic. This construction of the poem gives readers the opportunity to guess the implied words themselves. But even without this action, the landscape reproduced by the author does not lose its significance and attractiveness. Fet with sincere admiration describes the wonderful picture that opened up to him on a winter night. The author was attracted by the snowy plain, clearly visible in the bright moonlight, and the distant sound of a running sleigh, rare for such a time. Of course, even these simple, everyday, habitual moments for many are worthy of close attention.
Considering the text of Fet's poem "Wonderful Picture" in a literature lesson in grade 5, it is very important to emphasize its structural features. On our site, poems are easy to learn online or download in full.
wonderful picture,
How are you related to me?
white plain,
Full moon,
the light of the heavens above,
And shining snow
And distant sleigh
Lonely run.
Analysis of Fet's poem "A wonderful picture ..."
The ability to convey all the beauty of the surrounding nature in a few phrases is one of the most striking distinguishing features of the work of Afanasy Fet. He went down in the history of Russian poetry as an amazingly subtle lyricist and thoughtful landscape painter, who managed to find simple and precise words, describing rain, wind, forest, or various seasons. At the same time, only the early works of the poet differ in such liveliness and accuracy, when his soul was not yet overshadowed by a sense of guilt in front of the woman he once loved. Subsequently, he devoted a huge number of poems to Maria Lazich, moving further and further into love and philosophical lyrics in his work. Nevertheless, many early works of the poet have been preserved, which are filled with amazing purity, lightness and harmony.
In 1842, Afanasy Fet wrote the poem "A wonderful picture ...", masterfully depicting a winter night landscape. For such works, the poet was often criticized by venerable writers, believing that the lack of deep thoughts in poetry is a sign of bad taste. However, Afanasy Fet did not claim to be an expert on human souls. He just tried to find simple and accessible words to describe what he sees and feels. It is noteworthy that the author rarely expressed his personal attitude to the surrounding reality, trying only to fix various objects and phenomena. Nevertheless, in the poem, the poet cannot help admiring and, talking about a frosty winter night, admits: “How dear you are to me!”. Fet feels a special charm in what surrounds him - "a white plain, a full moon" bring to the life of the author long-forgotten feelings of joy and peace, which are enhanced by "a distant sleigh running alone."
It would seem that in the recreated picture of the winter night there is nothing remarkable and worthy of attention. Probably, the poem itself was written at the moment when Afanasy Fet was making a short journey through the vast Russian expanses. But the tenderness that the author puts into every line of this work indicates that such a night walk gave the author incomparable pleasure. Fet manages to convey his true feelings and remind us all that you can experience happiness even from simple and familiar things that we often simply do not pay attention to.
