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For people who study Russian language.Advanced level."Осень" А.С.Пушкин, читает И.СмоктуновскийEnglish translation:"Autumn" by A.S.PushkinIOctober has arrived - the woods have tossedTheir final leaves from naked branches;A breath of autumn chill - the road begins to freeze,The stream still murmurs as it passes by the mill,The pond, however's frozen; and my neighbor hastensto his far-flung fields with all the members of his hunt.The winter wheat will suffer from this wild fun,And baying hounds awake the slumbering groves. IIThis is my time: I am not fond of spring;The tiresome thaw, the stench, the mud - spring sickens me.The blood ferments, and yearning binds the heart and mind..With cruel winter I am better satisfied,I love the snows; when in the moonlightA sleigh ride swift and carefree with a friend.Who, warm and rosy 'neath a sable mantle,Burns, trembles as she clasps your hand.IIIWhat fun it is, with feet in sharp steel shod,To skim the mirror of the smooth and solid streams!And how about the shining stir of winter feasts? . .But in the end you must admit that naught but snowFor half the year will even bore a bearDeep in his den. We cannot ride for ages,In sleighs with youthful nymphs Or sulk around the stove behind storm windows.IVO, summer fair! I would have loved you, too,Except for heat and dust and gnats and flies.You kill off all our mental power,Torment us; and like fields, we suffer from the drought;To take a drink, refresh ourselves somehow -We think of nothing else, and long for lady Winter,And, having bid farewell to her with pancakes and with wine,We hold a wake to honor her with ice-cream and with ice.VThe latter days of fall are often cursed,But as for me, kind reader, she is preciousIn all her quiet beauty, mellow glow.Thus might a child, disfavored in its family,Draw my regard. To tell you honestly,Of all the times of year, I cherish her alone.She's full of worth; and I, a humble lover,Have found in her peculiar charms.VIHow can this be explained? I favor herAs you might one day find yourself attractedTo a consumptive maid. Condemned to death,The poor child languishes without complaint or anger.A smile plays upon her withering lips;She cannot sense as yet the gaping maw of death;A crimson glow still flits across her face.Today she lives, tomorrow she is gone.VIIA melancholy time! So charming to the eye!Your beauty in its parting pleases me -I love the lavish withering of nature,The gold and scarlet raiment of the woods,The crisp wind rustling o'er their threshold,The sky engulfed by tides of rippled gloom,The sun's scarce rays, approaching frosts,And gray-haired winter threatening from afar.VIIIWhen autumn comes, I bloom anew;The Russian frost does wonders for my health;Anew I fall in love with life's routine:Betimes I'm soothed by dreams, betimes by hunger caught;The blood flows free and easy in my heart,Abrim with passion; once again, I'm happy, young,I'm full of life - such is my organism(Excuse me for this awful prosaism)IXMy horse is brought to me; in open field,With flying mane, he carries fast his rider,And with his shining hooves he hammers out a songUpon the frozen, ringing vale, and crackling ice.But fleeting day dies out, new fire comes aliveInside the long-forgotten stove-- it blazes bright,Then slowly smoulders - as I read before it,Or nourish long and heartfelt thoughts.XAnd I forget the world - in silence sweet,I'm sweetly lulled by my imagination,And poetry awakens deep inside:My heart is churned with lyric agitation,It trembles, moans, and strives, as if in sleep,To pour out in the end a free statement-And here they come - a ghostly swarm of guests,My long-lost friends, the fruits of all my dream.XIMy mind is overcome by dashing thoughts,And rhymes come running eagerly to meet them,My hand demands a pen; the pen - a sheet of paper.Another minute - and my verse will freely flow.Thus slumbers an immobile ship caught in immobile waters,But lo! - the sailors rush all of a sudden, crawlUp top, then down - sails billow, filled with wind;The massive structure moves, and cuts the waves.XIIIt sails. But whither do we sail?...
