Late autumn is not sad. Alexander Pushkin - Autumn
Golden times of the year inspired many creative people. If you read the verse "Autumn" Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich completely, it can be understood that he also did not exception. The work is written at the peak of inspiration, which came to the poet during the next visit so favorite Boldino. The author was in the estate just in the fall, when his work became the most productive. Creating this poem to occur by October 1833.
Pushkin does not just praise this period. It is open and without a subtext recognized in the insane adoration of this time of the year. The poet leads a full-fledged conversation with readers, directly to them referring to them and describing its attitude to autumn in detail. It cannot rationally explain this strange attachment, but clearly calls the reasons why not as favorably refers to other periods of time. Spring at the poet is associated only with constant boredom and mud. In the summer, insects, thirst and heat do it. And winter, although Pushkin pleases, but quickly bored. Autumn for the poet - special time. He is indifferent to him that many she does not like. Even non-pepped landscapes, he is ready to describe so emotionally, with a positive shade, which involuntarily makes them admire the readers and penetrate the fading feelings to the fall. The poet originally compares it with a living being, lingering with humility and tranquility, with which nature at this time takes his wilment.
Many people remember the string on the autumn "Sad Personal Personnel Charm", which are taught by heart in 4th grade, but this is just an excerpt, a small part of the whole lyrical work. To fully appreciate the beauty of the syllable describing the advantage of this time of the year, it is worth reading the entire text of the Pushkin Pushkin's poem "Autumn" online or download it from our site.
I.
October has come - the grove docks
The last sheets with the naked branches;
Duffled the autumn chlad - the road freezes.
Zhurch still runs for the mill of the stream,
But the pond has already frozen; My neighbor is hurry
In the departure of the field with her hunt,
And they will be guided by Ozimi from mad fun,
And wakes up the dogs asleep dubrava.
II.
Now my time: I do not like spring;
I am bought to me thaw; stench, dirt - I am sick in the spring;
Blood wanders; Feelings, mind is constrained.
I am more pleased with the harsh winter,
I love her snow; In the presence of the Moon
Like an easy run with a girlfriend, fast and waven,
When under the sable, sogret and fresh,
She's hand to you, dusty and trembling!
III
How fun, shoe iron sharp legs
Slide on the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And winter holidays brilliant alarms? ..
But you need to know and honor; half a year snow yes snow
After all, it is finally a resident of Bergogov,
Bear, get bored. It is impossible a whole century
Ride us in sleigh with armidines
Ile kicker in front of windows double.
IV
Oh, summer red! I would love you
When without knowing, yes dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies.
You, all spiritual abilities
We torment us; As fields, we are suffering from drought;
Just how to drink, and refresh yourself -
There are no thoughts in us, and pity the winter old woman,
And, having spent her pancakes and wine,
Commemoration to her by creating ice cream and ice.
V.
The days of late autumn are born usually
But she is her Mila, the reader is dear,
Krasoye quietly brilliant humbly.
So unloved child in the family of native
To myself entails me. Tell you frankly
From annual times I'm glad only to her one,
There is a lot of good; Lover not vain,
I found something in her softening.
VI
How to explain it? I like her,
How is probably a consumers' virgin
Sometimes I like it. Death is convicted,
The poor thing is cloning without ropot, without anger.
Smile on the mouths faded visible;
The gravestone is not heard of the grave;
Playing on the face still crimson color.
She is alive today, tomorrow is not.
VII
Sad time! Ocho charming!
It's nice to me your farewell beauty -
I love the magnificent nature of fading,
In the bazhret and in gold dressed forests,
In their saint wind noise and fresh breath,
And the haired wavy covered skies,
And rare sun ray, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
VIII.
And with each fall, I bloom again;
My health is useful to Russian cold;
To the habits of being again feel love:
Well, the dream flies, twready finds hunger;
Easy and happily plays blood blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young
I'm full of life full - this is my body
(I suppose I forgive unnecessary prosecasis).
IX.
Lead to me a horse; in split open,
Mahaya Grivoy, he carries a rider,
And knelling under his glistening hoof
Rings a frozen dollars and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the chamber forgotten
Fire is again lit - then bright light sick,
Then slowly slowly - I read it before him
Il Duma long in my soul I dwell.
X.
And forget the world - and in sweet silence
I sweetly satisfied with my imaginum,
And awakens poetry in me:
The soul is hesitated by lyrical wave,
Trembles and sounds, and looking, as in a dream,
Finally free manifestation -
And here it is the invisible swarm guests,
Dressy long, my dream fruit.
XI
And thoughts in the head worry in the courage,
And rhymes are easy to meet them run,
And fingers ask for Peru, feather to paper,
Minute - and poems will flow freely.
So sleeping real estate ship in remitant moisture
But Chu! - Sailors suddenly throw, crawl
Up, down - and sails inflated, wind is full;
The grudge moved and dissects the waves.
XII.
Swim. Where are we sailing?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
"Autumn" Alexander Pushkin
I.
October has come - the grove docks
The last sheets with the naked branches;
Duffled the autumn chlad - the road freezes.
Zhurch still runs for the mill of the stream,
But the pond has already frozen; My neighbor is hurry
In the departure of the field with her hunt,
And they will be guided by Ozimi from mad fun,
And wakes up the dogs asleep dubrava.II.
Now my time: I do not like spring;
I am bought to me thaw; stench, dirt - I am sick in the spring;
Blood wanders; Feelings, mind is constrained.
I am more pleased with the harsh winter,
I love her snow; In the presence of the Moon
Like an easy run with a girlfriend, fast and waven,
When under the sable, sogret and fresh,
She's hand to you, dusty and trembling!III
How fun, shoe iron sharp legs
Slide on the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And winter holidays brilliant alarms? ..
But you need to know and honor; half a year snow yes snow
After all, it is finally a resident of Bergogov,
Bear, get bored. It is impossible a whole century
Ride us in sleigh with armidines
Ile kicker in front of windows double.IV
Oh, summer red! I would love you
When without knowing, yes dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies.
You, all spiritual abilities
We torment us; As fields, we are suffering from drought;
Just how to drink, and refresh yourself -
There are no thoughts in us, and pity the winter old woman,
And, having spent her pancakes and wine,
Commemoration to her by creating ice cream and ice.V.
The days of late autumn are born usually
But she is her Mila, the reader is dear,
Krasoye quietly brilliant humbly.
So unloved child in the family of native
To myself entails me. Tell you frankly
From annual times I'm glad only to her one,
There is a lot of good; Lover not vain,
I found something in her softening.VI
How to explain it? I like her,
How is probably a consumers' virgin
Sometimes I like it. Death is convicted,
The poor thing is cloning without ropot, without anger.
Smile on the mouths faded visible;
The gravestone is not heard of the grave;
Playing on the face still crimson color.
She is alive today, tomorrow is not.VII
Sad time! Ocho charming!
It's nice to me your farewell beauty -
I love the magnificent nature of fading,
In the bazhret and in gold dressed forests,
In their saint wind noise and fresh breath,
And the haired wavy covered skies,
And rare sun ray, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.VIII.
And with each fall, I bloom again;
My health is useful to Russian cold;
To the habits of being again feel love:
Well, the dream flies, twready finds hunger;
Easy and happily plays blood blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young
I'm full of life full - this is my body
(I suppose I forgive unnecessary prosecasis).IX.
Lead to me a horse; in split open,
Mahaya Grivoy, he carries a rider,
And knelling under his glistening hoof
Rings a frozen dollars and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the chamber forgotten
Fire is again lit - then bright light sick,
Then slowly slowly - I read it before him
Il Duma long in my soul I dwell.X.
And forget the world - and in sweet silence
I sweetly satisfied with my imaginum,
And awakens poetry in me:
The soul is hesitated by lyrical wave,
Trembles and sounds, and looking, as in a dream,
Finally free manifestation -
And here it is the invisible swarm guests,
Dressy long, my dream fruit.XI
And thoughts in the head worry in the courage,
And rhymes are easy to meet them run,
And fingers ask for Peru, feather to paper,
Minute - and poems will flow freely.
So sleeping real estate ship in remitant moisture
But Chu! - Sailors suddenly throw, crawl
Up, down - and sails inflated, wind is full;
The grudge moved and dissects the waves.XII.
Swim. Where are we sailing?
. . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . .
Analysis of the poem Pushkin "Autumn"
In vast autumn topic Pushkin heritage is a special place allocated to the unfinished work of 1833. It receives a poetic substantiation of the deep connection of seasonal changes in nature with the rise of creative forces, painted personal experiences.
The storage is based on a landscape sketch, which indicates the "October" lexeme, a beginner text. The Hero-Observer carefully records the natural changes caused by the breath of the "Autumn Grade": Ends of leaffall, the pond was covered with ice, the road freezes, but the water in the stream has not yet frozen. The listing of accurate parts of the surrounding space is completed by the hunting scene, the organizer of which the neighbor of the lyric "I" appears.
After parting with the role of the contemplator, in the three subsequent stanas, the subject of speech confidently declares its preferences. Seasonal changes are associated with the peculiarities of well-being. Spring longing and mental concerns are replaced by persistent thirst and the desire to refresh himself, generated by summer fool and abundance of insects. In a peculiar rating of the time of the year, the winter occupies a good position. The storytellor is pleasant to the funny memories of winter fun, but does not suit the duration of the cold. The author's irony increases in the end of the third stanter: for the image of boredom, the verb "Sound" is elected, typical of conversational speech. Joking revaluation receives an enthusiastic description of the equestrian visit in the society of a frivolous girlfriend, presented in the previous episode.
By confidentially reporting the reader about positive emotions, which causes the coming of autumn, the lyric entity explains its position with two comparative revolutions. Quiet, humble beauty of autumn pore finds a response in the shower. The latter is similar to sympathy that the child ignored by their parents or a deadly sick virgin is.
The curnt lines that glorify the attractive power of the "sad pore" are intentionally deprived of the exact detail of the landscape. A bright picture, generously spilled with royal shades of gold and crimson, is complicated by the dramatic premonition of the end, inevitable wilting. Natural background stimulates the physical and mental forces of the hero.
Dynamic daily classes are opposed to a calm evening atmosphere. The gradual awakening of poetry corresponds to a special detached state, when the mind is inferior to the strength of imagination. The beginning of the creative process is likened to sail the sailboat. The multi-valued open finale is also associated with a metaphor creative path As swimming, traveling to the immense world of fantasy.
The poem in the Octaves "Autumn" A. S. Pushkin is written in the fall in 1833 during the second arrival of the poet in p. Boldino, by objection from the Urals.
As in prose, and in verses, A. S. Pushkin repeatedly wrote that autumn was his beloved time of the year, the time of his inspiration, creative lifting and literary work.
The poet of no accident was pleased with autumn and considered it the time of his heyday: the second autumn A. S. Pushkin in the estate of Boldino with a year and a half was no less fruitful and rich in the work than the first, epochal, Boldin autumn 1830.
The most famous excerpt "Sad time! Ocho charming! "The VII of the octave poem" Autumn "belongs to the landscape lyrics A. S. Pushkin. Rows of the passage are a complete picture, realisticly accurately transmitted to the awakening of poetry in the soul inspired by his beloved sometimes of the poet.
Pooh Size Overweight - Sixtust Yam; Stroof poem - Octava.
Sad time! Ocho charming!
The work of "Autumn", and in particular, the excerpt was not published during the author of the author, for the first time it was published by V. A. Zhukovsky in the posthumous meeting of works A. S. Pushkin in 1841.
We bring to your attention and the text of the poem fully:
October has come - the grove docks
The last sheets with the naked branches;
Duffled the autumn chlad - the road freezes.
Zhurch still runs for the mill of the stream,
But the pond has already frozen; My neighbor is hurry
In the departure of the field with her hunt,
And they will be guided by Ozimi from mad fun,
And wakes up the dogs asleep dubrava.
Now my time: I do not like spring;
I am bought to me thaw; stench, dirt - I am sick in the spring;
Blood wanders; Feelings, mind is constrained.
I am more pleased with the harsh winter,
I love her snow; In the presence of the Moon
Like an easy run with a girlfriend, fast and waven,
When under the sable, sogret and fresh,
She's hand to you, dusty and trembling!
How fun, shoe iron sharp legs
Slide on the mirror of standing, smooth rivers!
And winter holidays brilliant alarms? ..
But you need to know and honor; half a year snow yes snow
After all, it is finally a resident of Bergogov,
Bear, get bored. It is impossible a whole century
Ride us in sleigh with armidines
Ile kicker in front of windows double.
Oh, summer red! I would love you
When without knowing, yes dust, yes mosquitoes, yes flies.
You, all spiritual abilities
We torment us; As fields, we are suffering from drought;
Just how to drink, and refresh yourself -
There are no thoughts in us, and pity the winter old woman,
And, having spent her pancakes and wine,
Commemoration to her by creating ice cream and ice.
The days of late autumn are born usually
But she is her Mila, the reader is dear,
Krasoye quietly brilliant humbly.
So unloved child in the family of native
To myself entails me. Tell you frankly
From annual times I'm glad only to her one,
There is a lot of good; Lover not vain,
I found something in her softening.
How to explain it? I like her,
How is probably a consumers' virgin
Sometimes I like it. Death is convicted,
The poor thing is cloning without ropot, without anger.
Smile on the mouths faded visible;
The gravestone is not heard of the grave;
Playing on the face still crimson color.
She is alive today, tomorrow is not.
Sad time! Ocho charming!
It's nice to me your farewell beauty -
I love the magnificent nature of fading,
In the bazhret and in gold dressed forests,
In their saint wind noise and fresh breath,
And the haired wavy covered skies,
And rare sun ray, and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
And with each fall, I bloom again;
My health is useful to Russian cold;
To the habits of being again feel love:
Well, the dream flies, twready finds hunger;
Easy and happily plays blood blood,
Desires boil - I'm happy again, young
I'm full of life full - this is my body
(I suppose I forgive unnecessary prosecasis).
Lead to me a horse; in split open,
Mahaya Grivoy, he carries a rider,
And knelling under his glistening hoof
Rings a frozen dollars and the ice cracks.
But the short day goes out, and in the chamber forgotten
Fire is again lit - then bright light sick,
Then slowly slowly - I read it before him
Il Duma long in my soul I dwell.
And forget the world - and in sweet silence
I sweetly satisfied with my imaginum,
And awakens poetry in me:
The soul is hesitated by lyrical wave,
Trembles and sounds, and looking, as in a dream,
Finally free manifestation -
And here it is the invisible swarm guests,
Dressy long, my dream fruit.
And thoughts in the head worry in the courage,
And rhymes are easy to meet them run,
And fingers ask for Peru, feather to paper,
Minute - and poems will flow freely.
So sleeping real estate ship in remitant moisture
But Chu! - Sailors suddenly throw, crawl
Up, down - and sails inflated, wind is full;
The grudge moved and dissects the waves.
Swim. Where are we sailing?. . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Great about verses:
Poetry is like painting: a different work will be captivated by you more if you will consider it near, and otherwise - if you leave away.
Small chemmered poems annoy nerves more than the creaking of non-scam wheels.
The most valuable in life and in verses is something that has broken.
Marina Tsvetaeva
Among all the arts, poetry is more than others being tempted to replace their own peculiar beauty stolen sparkles.
Humboldt V.
Poems succeed, if created with sincere clarity.
Writing poems closer to worship, what is usually believed.
When you know, the poems grow out of what kind of sera, without keeping shame ... as a dandelion at the fence, like burdocks and a swan.
A. A. Akhmatova
Not in some poetry poetry: she is spilled everywhere, she is around us. Take a look at these trees, on this sky - everywhere blows beauty and life, and where beauty and life, there is poetry.
I. S. Turgenev
Many people have an essay of poems - this is a disease of the growth of the mind.
Lichtenberg
Lovely verse is similar to a bow conducted by sound fibers of our being. Nothing - our thoughts makes the poet sing inside us. I tell us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our soul our love and our grief. He is a cockpit. Understanding him, we become poets like him.
There, where graceful poems are poured, there is no place to be favored.
Murassaki Sikiba
I appeal to the Russian renovation. I think that in time we turn to white verse. Rhymes in Russian too little. One causes another. The flaper inevitably drags the stone. Because of the feeling, art looks. Who is not bored with love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
- ... good your poems, tell me yourself?
- Monstrous! - Suddenly, boldly and frankly said Ivan.
- Do not write anymore! - I asked the newly imploringly.
- I promise and swear! - solemnly uttered Ivan ...
Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"
We all write poems; Poets differ from the rest only by what they write them in words.
John Falez. "Lover of French Lieutenant"
Any poem is a bedspread, stretched at the episodes of several words. These words will glow as stars, because of them there is a poem.
Alexander Alexandrovich Blok.
The poets of antiquity Unlike modern rarely created more dozens of poems during their long life. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, for each poetic product of those times, the whole universe, filled with miracles, is often dangerous for the one who carelessly wake the rear-arms lines.
Max Fry. "Cattle Dead"
One of his clumsy hippopots-poems, I attached such a paradise tail: ...
Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not worry, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not the sea and not a plague!
Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky
Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore, drive critics. They are only miserable in poetry pebbles. What can the critic about the depths of your soul? Do not let his vulgar feeling handles there. Let the poems seem to him with a ridiculous muming, chaotic sticks of words. For us, this is the song of freedom from a tedious reason, a nice song, sounding on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.
Boris Cryger. "Thousand Lives"
Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And there are nothing more tears, as a clean poetry that rejected the word.
