Author of quotes: Afanasy Afanasyevich FET

It still burns in my blood.

Here it is - winter!..

Buying your own piece of land is the favorite dream of our commoner, often to the obvious detriment of his well-being ... love for our own land can rightly be called popular among us, but this does not mean that it is combined with love for the communal form of ownership or life ... The whole modern life of the peasant from the cradle to the grave there is a constant desire to jump out not only from communal ownership, but even from family ownership, for which the daily divisions with tearing off the passage from the hut and breaking the saw between two brothers serve as eloquent proof ... The people hate communal ownership and flounder with it because it is from he is not released.

He who is unable to throw himself from the seventh floor upside down, with an unshakable belief that he will soar through the air, is not a lyricist.

Your hand ...

The volumes are much heavier.

As long as I breathe - you are my thought, no more ...

How sad are the gloomy days
Silent autumn and cold!
What a joyless thing
They ask for our souls!
But there are days when there are blood.
Gold-leaved deeds
Burning autumn is looking for eyes
And the sultry whims of love.
Shameful sadness is silent,
Only the defiant is audible,
And, freezing so magnificently,
She doesn't feel sorry for anything.

I will listen to those childhood dreams,
For which - all glitter in front;
Each time a fertile tears
I have a boil in my chest.

This morning, the joy of this,
The power and day light
This blue vault,
The cry and swirls,
These flocks, these birds,
This dialect of waters
These willow and birch,
These drops - these tears,
The fluff - not a leaf,
These mountains, these valleys,
These gnats, these bees,
This tongue and whistling
These Zori without Eclipse
This night the sigh of the village,
This night without sleep,
The haze and the heat bed
This fraction and the trill,
It's all spring.

Learn from them - oak, birch.
Around the winter. Cruel time!
In vain they filled with tears,
And cracked, simasa, Cora.
Fiercely the storm and with every minute by minute
Angrily tears the last leaves,
And for the heart lacks the fierce cold;
They stand silent; shut up you!
But trust the spring. It will fly a genius
Again, the warm and breathing life.
For clear days, for new revelations
Been ill the grieving soul.

A world of beauty,
From large to small,
And in vain you seek
To find its beginning.
What is the day Il age
To what indefinitely?
Though not the eternal man,
What ever humane.

Bad weather - autumn and smoke,
Smoke and everything seems so small.
Although read - only the read
It all happened so slowly.
Gray day crawling lazily,
And talking unbearable
On the wall wall clock
Language relentlessly.
Heart-curdling a little,
And at the hot fire
Thinking sick
All such a mess!
With a steaming Cup
The cooling tea,
Thank God, little by little,
Like the night, sleep...