Biography of Anton Delvig

My nightingale, nightingale, vocal nightingale! Where are you, where are you flying, where are you driving the whole night? And in us the soul was in full swing into your explosions, like you, for honor we shed blood, wine, poets praised us, we sang sweetly about love! The feast is not finished - and the guests went back, I was left to finish one. And then?

I look at you: their faces with their smile, and the same dispute about life and about wine; And he imagines to me, I considered a mistake that love has been forgotten by me for a long time. Friends are deceiving, in love, disruption and poison in everything that the heart values ​​is forgotten by them: enthusiastic Piset has already read his purpose. And despicable, persecuted from people, wandering alone under heaven, he speaks with the future eyelids; He sets honor above all parts, he takes revenge with his glory and shares immortality with the gods.

But only one infuriates me: I gave you girls and wine, and you, brainless pygmies, pound each other in the neck and then praise me under the thunder of the card fire. I do not like wars. Alarm, damn me, by golly! Between you, the dwarf-tsari erected altars to themselves, and they think, buffons that I put on crows on them and the right to blow people.

I am not to blame for it, her! But I have a little bit of them, damn me, by golly! They want to give me an honor to give me an honor, they smoke in my nose under my nose, they are afraid of you with a light -abroad and adverse with a Terrible with a murky. Do not listen to their lies, father to all good children; After the death of the flour, do not be afraid, love, drink, have fun ...

But I will talk to you ... goodbye! I am smooth! Kohl to heaven I will give him a way, damn me, by golly! Oh, you, night, night! Oh you, the night, stormy! But I’ll stay living. ” I am bitter to me - I share with cute tears in silence! Well in the sky, I don’t know, and I don’t need to know! My grandfather bequeathed to me great science: “By friendship,” he writes, “I healed boredom and sadness; From love he treated with unhappy eager wine; In general, it is safe to treat all misfortunes - sleep.

” Let them control the world with fate! But when I have a lira with me, for the bright of the air area, I will not give the golden days with voluptuous nights. Before the sky in vain prayers I do not humiliate, no, no! The poet is blessed in itself. Always, everywhere his soul will find direct voluptuousness! Is he to relax in the bliss, in happiness? Although he would have euthanized in the cradle to the sound of chains, and the criminals thundered in a depraved joy in the hop, and then he would give an elevated aspiration to his dream, and then a formidable contempt to the Prophet would have struck in response, and the poet was above rock.

To be lazy, they say, trouble, - and I am drowned in this trouble and, having awakened, forget what I cared about yesterday. Sometimes they say to me: “It's time to squeeze your poems, they will buy friends, friends will shout to them: Hurray! Funny behind the full bowl. Then, sir, from your glory, or from your wine, the whole side will speak from Belt to Siberia boring, where you will send a fat volume with a note of the Gemic.

” Everything is fine, but I don’t believe my bliss: I don’t quarrel for the verse, and I intertwine the rhyme to the rhyme, looking lazily at the pen. He will write to me - I will read! I will read them to friends: I like to listen to praise when they are worthy of praise. And I heard, thin the warrior who does not think the leader! So I think, meanwhile, interfering with the truth with dreams, I almost forgot that you and I used to tell my hearts - I forgot that my friend is distinguished by my laziness system, but unknown about my friends, by the post office I will send me a penalty of obvious assurances that he does not forget in the distant countries of his friends, where the world that decrepit in the ice is struck by the beauty of the wild; That, how the flickering spring revives the whole creation there, so about friends a dream alone brings him in admiration, he takes him to the bright land of golden hopes, memories where there are no worries, where there are no suffering and the words of the formidable: goodbye!

Be happy, friend! Here are the unbearable desires to be far from their circle, from the circle of joyful joy, where the friendship of us and the son of the Semels are used to collect, where you can all the care of the light with the uniform, to throw with a tailcoat, to praise the poet and talk about everything. I look with a smile out the window: here is my stream, my crops, the wine splashes from the clustering, there are hollow birds, the fat excretion is looking at the water, calling out lingering lingeringly, - the wife will decorate all this in my festive table.

And you, my careless years, comrades in the merry, in the grief, when I was just a poet and Sveta did not go into the sea - even though he now considers the order from boredom on my chest, sigh without the ranks with me, extend your hands to the glasses, stole the wings of the fun, talk about that, about the eloquent with a hangover! Admit that Blessed is the poet in his parent's possession!

Although he will not find his ovings under the landscape on the landscape, here is a garden, in a row with Athens il Sparta, but no one will take them a happily pulled out card. When the frantic flows whistles to him, he often leaves the room on business. Well, he does not have time to write bad poems when the day is a day, spends the night with his wife.

But, take a look, he is like an oak and straight. What is sluggish in front of him, the sainty of ladies and fashion? The color of full apples spilled over the cheeks, prudence, it is fresh in the advanced years.And you, a blind fool, or a new philosopher! Oh, believe me, and with the goggles the story is all the raffle. What will happen from you under the gray hair of Vlasov when you get tired of galloping among the ecoses?

Tell me, where will you get out of boredom and wife, wife, who is in the wrinkle of her rosy cheeks scolding you? What will delight, tell me, without the faith of the old man? What is good memory in the past? What a conscience ... you are silent! Between and Pushkin, who, like a swan by blooming Azonia, overshadowed by both myrtle and laurels, May at night at the choir of fluttering, in sweet dreams fell off his mother, he is not wisdom in advice; He does not hang on the walls of the defeated banner; He does not paint the pillar with feed of enemy vessels before the temple of Areev; The fleet, with the unchanging wealth of America, with heavy gold, bought blood, does not steam two -grade equator for him by the ships of the running.

But from infancy, he learns to chant the beauty of the Middle Kingdom, and his lanis from the greeting of a surprised crowd burn with a flame. And Pallas, a foggy cloud dawn from eyes, - and in his youth he already sees the sacred truth and vice, looking like! He will not tame in the forests; Lira will give him loud singing, and from mortals will delight the immortal Apollo on Olympus triumphant.

The quiet life is blessed, who will not step abroad abroad, will not be carried away; Who with a good conscience and with his cute will fall asleep merrily will wake up so cheerfully; Whoever takes milk from herds from the herds, the gold and soft wave gathered from his sheep, and for whom his oak in the fire burns in winter, and the summer is sophisticated on the summer day.

He spends calmly for a century in his writings, not noting the flight of a fast clock, and death will come to him with a smile on the lips, like the best, new days, the prophecue is good. So life and Delvig quietly spend. I will die - and soon everyone will forget about the poet! What are the needs? I am blessed, I could find peace and happiness in Lilet in obscurity! Between and Cefiz I.

But soon, it is soon, but soon, all we, we, shepherd, are old; All the sink, and Daphne, this hut, mockery, will suddenly grow up and, like a rose, blossomed in the morning, blind us with beauty. Late then to caress her, late and in vain. The turntable is unlikely to kiss the gray -haired - and, pushing his friend with his elbow, say with a mockery: “Take a look, here’s a grandmother's dear lover!

How are the cheeks blush, like dense wavy curls! His voice is nightingale, and his gaze is directly eagle! And we mocked, happened! Everything is passable here - one is impenetrable friendship! For a long time you and I have not seen! I won’t forget the day of the day that returned you to me, my virtuous old man! Dear friend, your curls did not sparkle old age shouting in snow!

Come to the cefisa; Here, take a rest under the cool shadows: you will be juicy in the garden of grapes and fruits of ruddy pear! With the pears of one, Filin, the fruits tasted and praised them, and Cephiz said cheerfully to him: “Friend, from now on the tree is yours; And I will diligently wrap it from a cold snowstorm with warm straw: let it bloom for you and get rich! Cefiz prayed to the vitality to fall asleep just as peacefully, albeit poor, but kind.

Under the pear of the old man, he buried and the hill crowned with cypress. He often heard when the moon was extended from the trees wet, long shadows, the sacred leaves whisper; Often the mysterious voice came from the coffin - it seemed that he was gratitude to the voice. And the sky gave Cephiz a lot since then both the pears of the incense and the clusters of the transparent.

Between and the lark I love to think, listening to the pigs, but it is sweeter to me to listen to the air trills of the spring lark! With which he dawns with sweets! With languishing, joy, my soul is constrained by the sick, exhausted! In spring, relaxed earth comes to life. And, fascinated by them, burning stronger with love with life -giving. How the torn soul catches his sounds!

And, sweetly comforted, forgetting flour for a moment, does not complain about the sky! Between and what is love? Incoherent sleep. Clutch of charm! And in the arms of dreams you make a dull moan, then dozing in sweet acceptance, throw your hands for a dream and leave a dream with a sick, heavy head. Here is the night; Through the valley, then behind the hill, then in the bushes, Chloe sees the old man with a long staircase in his hands.

It is quietly sneaking to the window, puts the staircase - and instantly, extending a dry leg, the old man flew to the sweet. Close to the place is expensive, a tear trembles on the cheek. Chloe mirror sedoma directly put it in the eyes.