If poetry comes not so naturally as leaves to a tree it had better not come at all. - Keats

                THE MUSE

 In my young years she loved me, and a seven-fluted,
 A fine-toned panpipe gave me, and as I half-muted
 Sounds wrung from out its depths, as my limp fingers touched
 The hollow, tuneful reed, she by me sat and watched
 And smiled to hear me play with skill that slow was growing
 Hymns by the gods inspired and too the songs sweet-flowing
 That in a bygone age the Phrygian shepherds sang.
 With music all day long the silent oak grove rang
 As taught I was by her, a privilege accorded
 In secret to a few; at times the Maid rewarded
 My diligence: her curls she'd fling back from her face
 And from me take the pipe and play with such sweet grace
 That by her breath revived and powers celestial granted
 The reed was, and the heart with sacred song enchanted.


[English] [Russian TRANS | KOI8 | ALT | WIN | MAC | ISO5]
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Apukhtin A. N.
Baratynsky E.A.
Batyushkov K.N.
Benediktov V.
Del'vig A.
Fet A.
Grebeonka E.
Griboedov A.
Grigoriev A.A.
Koltsov A.
Krylov I.
Kuyhelbeker V.
Lermontov M.
Maykov A.
Mey L.
Nekrasov N.
Ogarev N.
Pavlova K.
Pleshcheev A.
Polonsky Y.
Pushkin A.
Rostopchina E.
Soloviev V.S.
Surikov I.
Tolstoy A.
Tyutchev F.
Yazykov N.M.
Zhukovsky V.
Zhemchuzhnikov A.