Author of quotes: Sandor Petofi

Poetry - this is the building
Where to enter free all
Who wants to think, to feel, to pray...
What do you know about the temple you this?
Understand that this is the temple in which you
Log in sandals and even barefoot!

Honey, you wrote
Me a beautiful letter.
This track mind a lot,
The directness itself.
Writing - I'm more
With each passing hour, but, my friend,
Would you believe it, the creeps
Ran from these lines.
Had been laid on his forehead wrinkle,
And it is as a trail knife.
You, my friend, are guilty -
I read the letter, trembling.
That letter - like a Bush in the garden.
Under which sleeps the snake.
Can't find her, but in heels
Was secretly stung me.

Why chest
Lies within the boundaries?
In a space of happiness
Can not fit.
That joy is not pressed,
I'm part of it spend:
From the fullness of delight
I seem to pay.

Sleep, beautiful nature,
Sleep until the first days of spring.
Let you before their arrival
Dreaming sweet dreams.
Fingertips hurt
Quiet his lyre.
Easy the sound will glide to Satoru,
Calling for oblivion.

The sun to the earth with a smile
Looks, with meekness shining,
It's like a mother shaking zybko,
On the sleeping child.
The earth actually
Sleepy, not a dead look.
No, she was in her bed
Not end, and sleeping.

Fall again, again, charu,
Paint me my life.
I don't know why I love
But I love, love her.
Eyes drown in the vastness;
With the slope in the grass
Sit down to listen to the quiet rustle
Falling leaves.

No jingle bells in the distance flocks;
The tune ceased to play a shepherd;
Not heard of flocks of birds,
Veselava edge;
Quite silent on the bumps quail-Dergach,
And no longer plays cricket violinist.
The frozen sea looks a wasteland of sadness.
A tired bird, the sun is low pulls away.
Rays cold a bunch
Now old and near-sighted -
Need to bend down to see anything.
Wasted effort. Around one of the sadness, the horror.

Indeed the steppe - the steppe now, and all of Seda as snow.
Well, mistress autumn: the house she at least spit!
All spring proud
And a summer harvest season,
Machovka to the wind casts no shame.
In winter - the abomination of desolation, the cold.

In the winter the earth as a beggar in sermage,
Shivering in a tattered rags of a tramp.
From the ice cream patch,
But through them reveals a glimpse of skin.
It is a shame and trembling seized:
All the trash her need put.
Chilly day you do not want to will,
But what in the room expanse!

Where the rainbow sparkle,
A swarm of moths, and clover in the meadow?
Where the sound of the Creek and the birds chirping,
And all the treasures the spring and summer?
All this has become memory production,
A victim of graves was it.
White patches of snow on the hills.
In winter, the earth as a beggar in walkers.

Runs out do you
My unbridled anger
Trying from the height
Wild mountain stream,
Frothing and foaming
Deep in the gorge?
Runs out do you
My unbridled anger?
Can it be true will become
In poultry
Eagle, illuminated by heavenly fire,
Derzavy claws
In the back of the neck to grab
The fierce whirlwind,
To race on it?

The flowers in the gardens divett in the valley
And in the greenery of the poplar under a window,
But here's the harbinger of winter and gloom -
Mountain in its snow blanket.
And in my heart's afternoon of spring,
And the hot summer heat and the beauty,
But frost's untimely graying
Crept in already in my hair.

Ah, if I were a bird flying,
I'm in the clouds forever flying,
A would be artist - clouds
Only clouds wrote.
Love them. Watching waiting
Them and send them greetings.
Will I say, "goodbye",
And stare them in the sun.
Floating on the heavenly road
My dear friends,
I know they are known
They each Duma mine.
I often saw once,
As they sailed into the sunset
And slept in the embrace of sunset
As children the innocent sleep

If you're a flower - I stem,
If you're a dew - flowers up
Pulled the dewdrops shaken, -
Only our souls would have merged.
If you, my soul's delight,
The heights of heaven - I will become a star.
If you are, my angel, the chasm of hell -
Sin in the abyss of the fall.