One of those poems of Alexander Pushkin - part of things that keeps me going...
Therez nothing better than russian classics to brake cluttered soul to a soft slumber
Reading Alexander Pushkin's Eugene Onegin is just an experience as self-contemplation as both can brings you down to tears. One my the sheer multitude of his thoughts prompting the worthiness of our living having only the mind to read and relish and the later by revealing your true self to yourselves and how wasteful a life i lead without even a pinch of purpose to it.
Pushkin is the mozart of literature even personally akin to his life to some degree. Though his life was always described as poignant, paradoxical, fickly and the likes he rose as an invincible master of literature amdist the western and european contemporaries.I had read from a prose in one of book i read during those may days which i still remember calls him a man of parody. He lived in a world of delusions thinking himself awful and yet living with beautiful women of his days.
Eugene Onegin is still considered to be one such paradoxical work http://www.cogsci.indiana.edu/EugeneOnegin.html
Winter morning - Alexander Pushkin
Cold frost and sunshine: day of wonder!
But you, my friend, are still in slumber -
Wake up, my beauty, time belies:
You dormant eyes, I beg you, broaden
Toward the northerly Aurora,
As though a northern star arise!
Recall last night, the snow was whirling,
Across the sky, the haze was twirling,
The moon, as though a pale dye,
Emerged with yellow through faint clouds.
And there you sat, immersed in doubts,
And now, - just take a look outside:
The snow below the bluish skies,
Like a majestic carpet lies,
And in the light of day it shimmers.
The woods are dusky. Through the frost
The greenish fir-trees are exposed;
And under ice, a river glitters.
The room is lit with amber light.
And bursting, popping in delight
Hot stove still rattles in a fray.
While it is nice to hear its clatter,
Perhaps, we should command to saddle
A fervent mare into the sleight?
And sliding on the morning snow
Dear friend, we'll let our worries go,
And with the zealous mare we'll flee.
We'll visit empty ranges, thence,
The woods, which used to be so dense
And then the shore, so dear to me
