The Season

And must I wear a silken life,

Hemmed in by city walls?

And must I give my garden up

For theatres and balls?

Nay, though the cage be made of gold,

‘Tis better to be free;

The green of the green meadows, love,

Is quite enough for me.

I’d rather ramble through the lanes

Than drive about in town;

I’d rather muse or dream than dance,

When the stars are shining down.

I do not care for diamonds, dear,

But I care a deal for flowers;

And thousands are just creeping out

For the sunshine and the showers.

I like to hear the Household band,

But I love the bird-songs best;

And hark! how they are twittering now

Round each half-hidden nest!

The wind is whispering in the leaves,

And the downy bees begin

To hum in the blossoming sycamores,

And the brook is chiming in.

There is such melody in the woods,

Such music in the air!

The streets are full of life and sound,

And yet ’tis silent there.

I like to see the pictures-ay,

But I am hard to please!

I never saw a picture yet

As great and grand as these;

Such tones of colour as transform

The tender green and brown,

When the pink dawn is flushing up,

Or the red sun sinking down;

Such painting as the chestnut bud

Shows in its opening heart;

Such lights as shine ‘twixt earth and sky

When rain-clouds break apart;

Such soft, warm, subtle tints, as lie

In every mossy patch-

On the blue-brown trunks, now filled with life,

And the humble roof of thatch,-

In the purple hollows of the hills,

In the lichen on the wall,

In the orchard and the feathery woods,

And the sun-lit waterfall.

I like my humble country ways,

My simple, early meals;

I like to potter about the yard,

With my chickens at my heels.

I’d rather climb this brambly steep,

Where freshest sea-winds blow,

With my old straw hat hanging down my back.

Than canter along the Row.

To me (it’s vulgar, dear, I know)

No fête is half so gay

As a cricket-match on the village green,

Or a picnic in the hay.

Ah, yes! I’m happier as I am,-

I’m ignorant, you see;

And the life of fashion that you love

Would never do for me.

Poetry Monster – Home

A few random poems:

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 

• Иван Крылов – Ода, выбранная из псалма 14-го by Иван Крылов
• Иван Крылов – Лиса-строитель (Басня) by Иван Крылов
• Иван Крылов – Лев состаревшийся (Басня) by Иван Крылов
• Иван Козлов – Умирающая Эрменгарда by Иван Козлов
• Иван Коневской – Воскресение by Иван Коневской
• Иван Коневской – В небывалое by Иван Коневской
• Иван Елагин – Спрашивал ответа by Иван Елагин
• Иван Дмитриев – Сверчки by Иван Дмитриев
• Иван Дмитриев – Старик и трое молодых by Иван Дмитриев
• Иван Дмитриев – Смерть и Умирающий by Иван Дмитриев
• Иван Дмитриев – Слепец, Собака его и Школьник by Иван Дмитриев
• Иван Дмитриев – Шарлатан by Иван Дмитриев
• Иван Демьянов – Парикмахер рак-омар by Иван Демьянов
• Иван Демьянов – Одежкин домик by Иван Демьянов
• Иван Бунин – Норд-ост by Иван Бунин
• Иван Бунин – Ночного неба свод далекий by Иван Бунин
• Иван Бунин – Ночлег by Иван Бунин
• Иван Бунин – Ночь идет, и темнеет by Иван Бунин
• Иван Бунин – Никогда вы не воскреснете, не встанете by Иван Бунин
• Иван Бунин – Нет солнца, но светлы пруды by Иван Бунин

More external links (open in a new tab):

Russian Commerce Agency

Dealing Monster

Doska or the Board – write anything

Search engines:

Yandex – the best search engine for searches in Russian (and the best overall image search engine, in any language, anywhere)

Qwant – the best search engine for searches in French, German as well as Romance and Germanic languages.

Ecosia – a search engine that supposedly… plants trees

Duckduckgo – the real alternative and a search engine that actually works. Without much censorship or partisan politics.

Yahoo– yes, it’s still around, amazingly, miraculously, incredibly, but now it seems to be powered by Bing.

 

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