Status Updates From Alexandre pouchkine - eugèn...

"Spent dreams, spent years there is no reliving."

"Imagine, can you? I'm alone,
There's no one here who understands me,
My very reason countermands me.
And doomed to die, I'm mute as stone.
I now must wait for your decision:
Please smile and flood my heart with light!
Or else please dash my dreams tonight.
Alas, for what they're worth: derision."

"My head was filled with sundry lore
Of damsels, goblins, spooks of yore.
But memories fade—it's quite uncanny.
What once you knew, you've plum forgot.
It's sad but true—a mind will rot
As youth recedes…"

"I need to rest from all this rhyme:
I'll end my tale some other time."

"The less we love her, the more surely
We stand to gain a woman's heart
And ruin her the more securely
Ensnared by the seducer's art."

”I’ve known too many a haughty, beauty,
cold, pure as ice, and as unkind,
inexorably wed to duty,
unfathomable to the mind;
shocked by their modish pride, and fleeing
the utter virtue of their being.”

”Because she loved and was not artful,
Gave in to impulse, with her heart full,
Her nature too confiding-swift,
Endowed by heaven with the gift
A thousand fancies to engender,
With wits and will above her kind,
Originality of mind,
A heart inflammable and tender?
Would you not hesitate to scourge
The recklessness of passion’s urge?”

"But minds are all unhinged at present,
True worth is boring to this age;
outside of novels, vice seems pleasant,
And in them, it is all the rage."

"Today a mental fog enwraps us,
each moral puts us in a doze,
even in novels, vice entraps us,
yes, even there its triumph grows."

"Some future dunce with scant gray matter
will spy my portrait, point, and say,
"They don't make bards like him, today!
Accept my grateful salutations,
Admirer of the muses' strains,
O you whose mem'ry still retains
Odd remnants of my light creations,
Whose loving hand runs gently o'er
The laurels of this bard of yore."

"I'm blind to every apparition;
and yet a distant admonition
of hope sometimes disturbs my heart;
it would be painful to depart
and leave no faint footprint of glory…
I never lived or wrote for praise;
yet how I wish that I might raise
to high renown my doleful story,
that there be just one voice which came,
like a true friend, to speak my name."

"The seed of every generation
Strikes hurried root, and fruits, and fails,
And new seed rises in its trails…
Thus our own giddy wave goes rolling,
Swells high, and tosses foam, and raves,
And sweeps us to our forebears' graves.
Our own bell, friends, is tolling, tolling,
Our children's seed will come of age
And swiftly crowd us off the stage."

Habit is Heaven's own redress;
it takes the place of happiness.

youth is a fever; we must spare
its natural right to rave and flare.

My pen forgets my former folly: