The page or fifteenth year

This is the age of Cherub ...

Fifteen years I will soon blow;
Rain or happy day?
He ahead of me impel!
But now no one will throw
With contempt look at me.

I was no longer a boy - it's above the lip
Can I have a mustache zaschipnut;
I important, as an old man, toothless;
Can you hear my voice rough,
Try someone to push me.

I like me ladies, for modest,
And there is one among them ...
And the proud gaze of its so Thomen,
And the color of her cheeks so is dark,
What life dearer to me it.

she strict, power-hungry,
Я сам дивлюсь ее уму —
And the horror as she is jealous;
Therefore, vsemi proud
And I see one.

she vechor me majestically
swore, that if I once again
Look left and right,
That will give it me poison; – право —
Such is her love!

She's ready even in the desert
Run away with me, scorning fame.
You want to know my goddess,
My the Seville Countess?..
No! I would not call!

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Alexander Pushkin
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