When out of town, brooding, I wander…

When out of town, brooding, I wander
And I go to a public cemetery,
Grilles, bollards, ornate tomb,
Under wherewith rot all dead capital,
In the swamp anyhow cramped row,
As guests greedy for poverty table,
merchants, officials dead mausoleums,
Cheap cutter ridiculous venture,
Above them, the inscriptions in prose and in verse
About the virtues, of service and rank;
According to the old Roháče widows weeping amorous,
Thieves unscrewed from the pillars urns,
graves slimy, who is also here
tenants Zevayuchi to him in the morning waiting, —
Such thoughts troubled me all leads,
What evil is on my despondency.
Though spit yes flee ...
But how can a pleasure to me
Autumn sometimes, the evening stillness,
In the village cemetery to visit the ancestral,
Where asleep dead in solemn rest.
There is room unadorned graves;
These climbs a dark pale thief in the night;
Near the century-old stone, covered with yellow moss.
Villager passes with prayer and with a sigh;
At idle place boxes and small pyramids,
Beznosov geniuses, rastrepannыh Harith
It should be widely oak coffins of important,
Hesitation and dinning ...

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Alexander Pushkin
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