A poem by Alexander Pushkin – Pouchkine, Pooshkin (1799-1837), in English translation
A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPRITE
In forest depths, beside a mere,
A monk once made his habitation ;
Absorbed in penances severe,
In fast and prayer he sought salvation.
Already by his own poor spade
His grave was hollowed to receive him,
And every day the good saint prayed
That Heaven from earth would soon relieve him.
One summer’s eve, the hermit poor,
At prayer within his narrow room,
Looked out beyond his humble door
And saw the forest wrapped in gloom ;
Night-mists were rising from the mere,
Between the clouds the moon ‘gan peep;
The monk unto the pool drew near
And gazed into its waters deep.
He saw himself-drew back perturbed
By fears he ne’er had known before ;
For, lo, the waters were disturbed,
Then suddenly grew calm once more ;
“While fitful as a twilight shade,
Than virgin snow more purely white,
From out the pool appeared a maid
Approaching in the silver light.
She shook the bright drops from her hair
And gazed upon the anchorite ;
To look upon her form so fair
The good monk trembled with affright.
And he beheld her from afar
With head and hand strange signals make,
Then swifter than a shooting star
Dive back into the silent lake.
All night the hermit could not sleep,
All day in agony he prayed ;
But still he could not choose but keep
The image of that wondrous maid
Before him. So, when day did wane,
And overhead the moon was bright,
He watched, and saw her come again
In all her beauty, dazzling white.
She beckoned to him where he stood,
And gave him greeting glad and free.
She played and splashed about the flood,
She laughed and danced in childish glee,
As softly to the monk she cried :
” Come hither, monk, and join me here!”
Then suddenly she dipped to hide
Her beauty in the darkling mere.
The third day came-grown mad with love,
The hermit sought th’ enchanted shore
Ere yet night’s veil was drawn above,
And waited for the maid once more.
Dawn broke-the monk had disappeared . . .
And now the frightened children say
He haunts the pool: and lo! his beard
Floats on the water night and day.
A few random poems:
- Inscription for the Entrance to a Wood by William Cullen Bryant
- Blithe Dreams Arise To Greet Us by William Ernest Henley
- Владимир Высоцкий – Нет рядом никого, как ни дыши
- HEAL ME by WALID SABA
- The Silence by Wendell Berry
- Trees poem – Angelina Weld Grimke poems | Poems and Poetry
- Алексей Николаевич Толстой – Москва
- How Solemn as One by One. by Walt Whitman
- Fool by Rabindranath Tagore
- How I Walked Alone in the Jungles of Heaven by Vachel Lindsay
- Sometimes by Vinko Kalinić
- Do not be ashamed by Wendell Berry
- Petals poem – Amy Lowell poems | Poems and Poetry
- Drunkenness
- The Fisherman by William Butler Yeats
External links
Bat’s Poetry Page – more poetry by Fledermaus
Talking Writing Monster’s Page –
Batty Writing – the bat’s idle chatter, thoughts, ideas and observations, all original, all fresh
Poems in English
- Robert Burns: Verses To Collector Mitchell :
- Robert Burns: Jockey’s Taen The Parting Kiss:
- Robert Burns: Mally’s Meek, Mally’s Sweet:
- Robert Burns: Crowdie Ever Mair:
- Robert Burns: News, Lassies, News:
- Robert Burns: The Wren’s Nest: Fragment
- Robert Burns: Leezie Lindsay: Fragment
- Robert Burns: Inscription: Written on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of my poems, presented to the Lady whom, in so many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I have so often sung under the name of-“Chloris.”
- Robert Burns: O That’s The Lassie O’ My Heart :
- Robert Burns: Song Inscribed To Alexander Cunningham:
- Robert Burns: O Bonie Was Yon Rosy Brier:
- Robert Burns: This Is No My Ain Lassie:
- Robert Burns: The Braw Wooer:
- Robert Burns: Why, Why Tell The Lover: Fragment,
- Robert Burns: Forlorn, My Love, No Comfort Near:
- Robert Burns: Their Groves O’Sweet Myrtle :
- Robert Burns: Twas Na Her Bonie Blue E’e:
- Robert Burns: Mark Yonder Pomp Of Costly Fashion:
- Robert Burns: How Cruel Are The Parents: Altered from an old English song. tune-“John Anderson, my jo.”
- Robert Burns: On Chloris Being Ill:
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Alexander Pushkin (1799-1937) was a Russian poet, playwright and prose writer, founder of the realistic trend in Russian literature, literary critic and theorist of literature, historian, publicist, journalist; one of the most important cultural figures in Russia in the first third of the 19th century.