Author of quotes: Semyon Yakovlevich Nadson. Page 3

And I am ready to lie motionless for a year,
In the brilliance of the day golden-azure -
And not to rush again nowhere, nowhere
From under this sky is turbulent.

The noisy life of the exhausted capital.

Everything is wrapped in sleepy dreams ...

It was dusk. Mysteriously flickering,
The two-horned sickle of the moon looked out my window...
Over a peaceful city, trembling and freezing,
The cathedral bell hummed measuredly...
Along a dark street with tenacious gold
Lights were drawn. But the lamp on the table
I hesitated to light up, embraced by silence,
And sweetly dreamed in silence.

Where I was drawn to unclear aspirations,
Into what an unknown world, I could not comprehend;
But in these nights of thought and passionate anthanity.
Insignificant deeds of human soul I was far away:
My spirit resented the power and chains of the body,
He didn't want obstacles, he didn't want veils.
And eternity whole in my face looked
From the starry depths of the shining skies!

Just not to share her empty lot with the crowd! ..

In kiosks, flower beds and fountains.

Faster than birds in their dreams.

Child of the capital, from a young day
He loved her movement,
And gas light belts,
And noisy streets are lively.

And that there is nowhere to go.

Do not hurry to give me your love,
Do not dress me up in the flowers of your dreams,
Think about whether you can forgive endlessly,
Will you not be afraid of the coming trials?

You'll love me... As a skilled player,
I know all the cards in advance
And the light in your heart
I fan a boundless fire.
And to you, with your open soul
And with a truthful, trusting look,
Do not break under the whirlwind - the bylinka steppe,
Don't get into my intoxicating poison?
I, like keys, touch your senses,
And I know that timid sounds
Soon they will pour out a powerful love song,
Full of happiness, doubt and anguish!..

I've been alien to life for a long time... everything that fascinates;
Everything that beckons into the distance, I penetrated deception.

Poetry is now the poetry of sorrows.