Author of quotes: Nikolai Stepanovich Gumilev. Page 3

See women of the hero, going to death!

Gently-an unprecedented joy
Touched my shoulder,
And now I don't need anything
Neither you nor the happiness you want.
Only one thing would have accepted I'm not arguing -
Quiet, quiet, Golden peace
Yes, twelve thousand feet of sea
Above my broken head.
What to think, how would sweetly indulged
The peace and the eternal roar of tormented,
If only I never lived,
Never sang and loved.

No home like this home!
Books and incense, flowers and prayers!
But, you see, father, I ache for another,
Let the world there are tears, but in the world there is a battle.

Still quiet lonely Palace,
It three it three only:
Sad king, and killed the singer
And the wild song of his.

Near the port, shouting in unison
The sailors, demanding wine,
But over Istanbul and on the Bosphorus
Flashed the full moon.
Tonight at the bottom of the Bay
Throw unfaithful wife,
His wife was too beautiful
And resembled the moon.
She loved their dreams,
The gazebo in the thicket of reeds,
Gadaldi of old women and fortune-telling,
And everything that is not loved Pasha.
Father is sad, but understands
And whispers to her husband: "well, it's time?"
But his eyes are stubborn not raised
Dreams of a younger sister:
- Many, many in remote bays
Lies lovers others
Woven, languid and silent...
What a joy to be among them!

A lot of them, strong, evil and fun
Killing elephants and people
Dying of thirst in the desert,
Freezes on the edge of eternal ice,
True to our planet
Strong, cheerful and angry,
Carry my books in a saddlebag,
Read them in a palm grove
Forget on a sinking ship.

I don't like languor
Your crossed hands,
And quiet modesty,
And bashful fright.
The heroine of Turgenev's novels,
You arrogant, gentle and pure,
You so much besboro-autumn
From the Avenue where the circle leaves.

Groves of palm trees and thickets of aloe,
Matted silver Creek,
The sky is infinitely blue,
The sky, the Golden from the rays.
And what more do you want, heart?
Is happiness a fairy tale or a lie?
Why the temptations of the infidel
You dutifully pay?
Again do you want poison,
Want to fight in fiery delirium,
Don't you power to live like grass
In this delightful garden?

Reader of books, and I wanted to find
My quiet Paradise in obedience to consciousness,
I loved them, these strange ways,
Where there is no hope and no memories.
Tirelessly to sail by streams of rows
In the Straits of heads to join eagerly
And watch the foam flow,
And listen to the hum of the running tide.

In a red coat with lace
Perfumed, rose, Maestro,
He scattered in front of us
Sounds light orchestra.
Sounds rushed and shouted,
As vision as the giants
And tossed in the echoing hall,
And dropped the diamonds.

Today you will come to me,
Today I understand
Why so strange in the moonlight
To be left alone.
You stop, pale,
And quietly reset cloak.
Isn't it a full moon
Rises from the dark thickets?

To me why they gathered, the Duma,
Like thieves in the night in the quiet darkness of the suburbs?
Like vultures, ominous and gloomy,
Why cruel demanded revenge?

Why are we not meaning
Our dum hot, trembling,
Fill the air crying,
Dreams, mixed with lies.
For eh, that is useless
No bliss without grief
Between Time and the Abyss
Draw your spiral.

Sacred float and melt the night
Sweeping epic days
And death I look in the eyes,
Green wisps.
It is everywhere - in the glow of a fire,
And in the darkness, unexpected and close,
Some on horseback Hungarian hussar,
And then with a Tyrolean gun hand.
But the beauty lives in the clear consciousness,
What is so fragile fetters of being,
As if feminine of all the universe,
And I control it entirely.