Street. setout. A few feasting men and women.
The venerable chairman! I remember
About a human, We are very familiar,
About tom, whose jokes, funny story,
Sharp answers and comments,
So caustic in their importance fun,
Table Talk revived
And scatter the darkness, which is now
Infection, our guest, nasılaet
The most brilliant minds.
Besides two days of our general laughter praised
his stories; impossible to be,
So we are in his cheerful feasting
Forgot Jackson! Here the chair
are empty, if waiting
Jovial - but he was gone already
In the cold underground dwellings ...
Although eloquent language
He did not stop even in the dust of the grave;
But many of us still alive, and for us
There is no reason to be sad. so,
I propose a toast to his memory
With the cheerful sound of glasses, with shouting,
As if I were he alive.
He retired the first
From our range. Let in molchane
We have a drink in his honor.
Let it be so!
All drink in silence.
Your voice, sweet, outputs sounds
Birth-songs with a wild perfection;
Sing, Mary, we sadly and lingeringly,
So that we then turned to the fun
madly, like that, who is from the earth
He was excommunicated some vision.
There was a time, flourished
In the world of our party:
On Sunday I visited
The Church of God is full;
Our children in a noisy school
And sparkled in the bright field
Hammer and fast Spit.
Now the church was empty;
School muffled locked;
Niva idly overripe;
Grove dark empty;
and selenium, how housing
Pogorelov, costs, —
softly all. one cemetery
not deserted, not silent.
Every minute of the dead are,
And the cries of the living
Fearfully ask God
Upokoit their souls!
Pominutno city hope,
And graves among themselves,
Like a frightened herd,
Huddle close succession!
If an early grave
Destined to my spring -
You, whom I so loved,
Whose love delight me, —
I pray: not pryblyzhaysya
For you my body Jenny,
Do not touch the mouth of the dead,
We should issue her.
And then leave The village in!
Wherever you can torment the soul
Delight and relax.
And when the infection blowjob,
Visit my poor ashes;
But Edmond did not leave
Jenny even in heaven!
thank you, thoughtful Mary,
Thank you for your plaintive song!
In the days of the old plague so Well, it is seen,
The hills and valleys of your visited,
And we heard the pitiful groans
On the banks of streams and creeks,
Running is now fun and peaceful
Through the wild paradise of your native land;
And the dismal year, which fell as much
courageous, good and beautiful victims,
Barely left his mark on
In some simple shepherd's song,
Dull and pleasant ... No, nothing
So do not grieve us among gay,
How languid, povtoronny heart sound!
ABOUT, if I never Phewa
Outside the hut of my parents!
They listen to their loved Mary;
I myself, it seems, heed,
Poyuschey in innate threshold.
My voice was sweeter while: he
It was the voice of innocence ...
Not in vogue
Now songs! But all have
More simple souls: glad to melt
From women's tears and blindly believe them.
she is confident, that tearful eyes
Her irresistible - and if the same
Of laughter, thought his, then, right,
All Used smiling. Walsingham praised
Noisy northern beauties: here
She rasstonalas. I hate
Hair of the Scottish yellowness.
Послушайте: I hear the sound of wheels!
wagon rides, filled with dead bodies. Negro controls it.
To her! Louise ill; it, I thought,
Judging by language, man's heart.
But so it is - a cruel gentle weaker,
And the fear lives in the soul, tormented passions!
Give it up, Mary, water in her face. she's better.
Sister of my sorrow and shame,
I lie down on my chest.
(coming to life)
I dreamed: all black, byeloglazyi ....
He called me into his truck. it
Lay dead - and lisped
terrible, unknown speech ....
Tell me: to whether it was a dream?
L drove the wagon?
Cheer - even though all of our street
Silent sanctuary from death,
shelter peers, nothing undisturbed,
but you know, this black cart
He is entitled to drive everywhere.
We need to pass it! Listen,
You, Walsingham: to prevent disputes
And the consequences of fainting women sing
us a song, free, lively song,
Do not be sad Scottish inspiration,
A large, Bacchanalian song,
Born of a cup of boiling.
This I do not know, but you sing the national anthem
I'm after the plague, - I wrote it
last night, how we parted.
I found a strange hunt for rhymes
For the first time in his life! Listen to me, Well:
Hoarseness of my voice is decent song.
A hymn in honor of the plague! hear it!
A hymn in honor of the plague! perfectly! bravo! bravo!