Diana

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Mörderische Krallen
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by R.L. Stine (Goodreads Author)
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Risiko. Es war do...
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by R.L. Stine (Goodreads Author)
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Lord Of The Flies
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progress:  On page 20. Mar 14, 2017 01:08AM

 
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Marina Tsvetaeva
“За Отрока — за Голубя — за Сына,
За царевича младого Алексия
Помолись, церковная Россия!

Очи ангельские вытри,
Вспомяни, как пал на плиты
Голубь углицкий — Димитрий.

Ласковая ты, Россия, матерь!
Ах, ужели у тебя не хватит
На него — любовной благодати?

Грех отцовский не карай на сыне.
Сохрани, крестьянская Россия,
Царскосельского ягнёнка — Алексия!

4 апреля 1917,
третий день Пасхи



Pray for the Son - the Dove - the Adolescent,
For the young Tsarevich, for the young Alexis -
Russia, pray, who the true faith confessest!

Wipe those angel eyes now, ponder deeply
Him that fell upon the stones - think meetly
On the dove of Uglich, on Dimitri.

Gentle mother, Russia, kind, caressing!
Is thy heart so hard as not to grace him
With thy loving-kindness, with thy blessing?

Visit not upon the son the father's trespass.
Russia of the country folk - be his protectress:
Spare the lamb of Tsarskoye Selo, Alexis!

4 April 1917
Third day of Easter

Marina Tsvetaeva, The Demesne of the Swans

Marina Tsvetaeva
“Это просто, как кровь и пот:
Царь — народу, царю — народ.

Это ясно, как тайна двух:
Двое рядом, а третий — Дух.

Царь с небес на престол взведён:
Это чисто, как снег и сон.

Царь опять на престол взойдёт —
Это свято, как кровь и пот.

7 мая 1918, 3-ий день Пасхи
(а оставалось ему жить меньше трёх месяцев!)



It is simple, as blood and sweat:
Tsar and people - in destiny wed.

It is clear, as a secret shared
Between two, an the Spirit- the third.

Heaven summoned the tsar to his throne:
It is spotless, as sleep as snow.

And the tsar shall regain his throne yet:
It is sacred, as blood and sweat.


24th April 1918
3rd day of Easter (and he had - less than three months to live!)

Marina Tsvetaeva, The Demesne of the Swans

Marina Tsvetaeva
“Дорожкою простонародною,
Смиренною, богоугодною,
Идём — свободные, немодные,
Душой и телом — благородные.

Сбылися древние пророчества:
Где вы — Величества? Высочества?

Мать с дочерью идём — две странницы.
Чернь чёрная навстречу чванится.
Быть может — вздох от нас останется,
А может — Бог на нас оглянется…

Пусть будет — как Ему захочется:
Мы не Величества, Высочества.

Так, скромные, богоугодные,
Душой и телом — благородные,
Дорожкою простонародною —
Так, доченька, к себе на родину:

В страну Мечты и Одиночества —
Где мы — Величества, Высочества.

1919

The path of plain folk, of simplicity,
we tread, God-fearing, with humility -
outmoded garb, we guard our liberty,
in mind and body - pure nobility.

Thus spake the prophets, of proud dynasties:
Where are ye - Majesties? and Highnesses?

So, mother, daughter - two lone wanderers.
The churlish mob surge, chiding, on at us.
Maybe - some breath will yet remain of us,
And maybe - God look back again on us...

His will be done, the Lord of Righteousness:
we are no Majesties, no Highnesses.

Let us, God-fearing, with humility,
In mind and body - pure nobility,
turn homeward, daughter - tread submissively
the path of plain folk, of simplicity:

Back to the land of Dreams and Loneliness -
where we - are Majesties, and Highnesses.”
Marina Tsvetaeva, The Demesne of the Swans

“Я не знаю, зачем упрекают меня,
Что в созданьях моих слишком много огня,
Что стремлюсь я навстречу живому лучу
И наветам унынья внимать не хочу.

Что блещу я царицей в нарядных стихах,
С диадемой на пышных моих волосах,
Что из рифм я себе ожерелье плету,
Что пою я любовь, что пою красоту.

Но бессмертья я смертью своей не куплю,
И для песен я звонкие песни люблю.
И безумью ничтожных мечтаний моих
Не изменит мой жгучий, мой женственный стих.


I do not know why they reproach me
for having too much fire in my poems,
for striving to meet the lively sunbeam
and refusing to heed the accusations of gloom.

For shining like a tsarina in my elegant verses,
with a diadem on my opulent hair,
for weaving myself a necklace of rhymes,
for singing of love, for singing of beauty.

I will not buy immortality with my death.
And as for songs, I love melodious ones.
And the insanity of my petty dreams
will be voiced in my passionate, feminine verse.

1898”
Мирра Лохвицкая

Anna Akhmatova
“And you, my friends who have been called away,
I have been spared to mourn for you and weep,
not as a frozen willow over your memory,
but to cry to the world the names of those who sleep.
What names are those!
I slam shut the calendar,
down on your knees, all!
Blood of my heart,
the people of Leningrad march out in even rows,
the living, the dead: fame can't tell them apart.”
Anna Akhmatova, Selected Poems

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