Поиск по заголовкам произведений. Cлово "ABOUT". Классическая русская литература.

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Часть текста: They all speak about the same thing They all speak about the same thing Nightingales of monastery garden, Like all nightingales flying above, Say that there is but one joy in living, And that this joy comes in form of love. And the monastery meadows flowers With the tenderness just flowers possess, Say theres but one merit: Lovers Touch their lips together and caress. And, filled to the brim with blueness endless, Lakes among the monastery wood, Say: Theres no more azure glance Than in those who love and who are loved.

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Часть текста: So many stones have been thrown at me That I don't fear them any longer Like elegant tower the westerner stands free Among tall towers, the taller. I'm grateful to their builders - so be gone Their sadness and their worry, go away, Early from here I can see the dawn And here triumphant lives the sun's last ray. And frequently into my room's window The winds from northern seas begin to blow And pigeon from my palms eats wheat.. The pages that I did not complete Divinely light she is and calm, Will finish Muse's suntanned arm.

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Часть текста: wanted. Owing to rains and floods, especially noticeable in Kansas, most of the drive from New York State to Colorado was entomologically uneventful. When reached at last, Telluride turned out to be a damp, unfrequented, but very spectacular cul-de-sac (which a prodigious rainbow straddied every evening) at the end of two converging roads, one from Placerville, the other from Dolores, both atrocious. There is one motel, the optimistic and excellent Valley View Court where my wife and I stayed, at 9,000 feet altitude, from the 3rd to the 29th of July, walking up daily to at least 12,000 feet along various more or less steep trails in search of sublivens. Once or twice Mr. Homer Reid of Telluride took us up in his jeep. Every morning the sky would be of an impeccable blue at 6 a. m. when I set out. The first innocent cloudlet would scud across at 7: 30 a. m. Bigger fellows with darker bellies would start tampering with the sun around 9 a. m., just as we emerged from the shadow of the cliffs and trees onto good hunting grounds. Everything would be cold and gloomy half an hour later. At around 10 a. m. there would come the daily electric storm, in several installments, accompanied by the most irritatingly close lightning I have ever encountered anywhere in the Rockies, not excepting Longs Peak, which is saying a good deal, and followed by cloudy and rainy weather through the rest of the day. After 10 days of this, and despite diligent subsequent exploration, only one sparse colony of sublivens was found. On that one spot my wife found a freshly emerged male on the 15th. Three days later I had the pleasure of discovering the unusual-looking female. Between the 15th and the 28th, a dozen hours of windy but passable collecting weather in all (not counting the hours and hours uselessly spent in mist and rain) yielded only 54 specimens, of which 16 were...

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Часть текста: "Песня о Земле" (Кто сказал: "Все сгорело дотла...", на английском — "Song About Earth") После 5 куплета исполнялось: Кто сказал: "Всё сгорело дотла, Больше в землю не бросите семя!"? Кто сказал, что Земля умерла? Нет, она затаилась на время! Кто сказал, что Земля умерла? Нет, она затаилась на время! Кто поверил, что Землю сожгли?! Нет, она затаилась на время... На английском — "Song About Earth" Who could say: "All was burned to a crisp, Earth will never again be fertile!"? Who could say that it ceased to exist? No, it quieted down for a while. Earth of motherhood try to bereave — It"s as hard as to empty an ocean. Who believes Earth was burned, who believes? No, it blackened of grief and commotion. Gash-like trenches are running across. Gaping wide, crater wounds never cured, Laying bare all Earth"s bare nerves, Which unspeakable pain have endured. It"ll wait, it"ll bear anything, — Called a cripple will hardly be ever! Who would argue that Earth doesn"t sing? Who would say it"s been silenced forever?! No! It muffles its groans in a call, Every wound of it sings, every hole! Earth is our soul, after all, — How can boots trample down a soul?! Who believes Earth was burned, who...

Поиск по заголовкам произведенийCлово "ABOUT"

Поиск по заголовкам произведений
Cлово "ABOUT"