Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov
Biography of Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov
Nekrasov was a Russian poet and journalist. His first collection of poems - Dreams and Sounds was published in 1840. His second collection The Poems of Nikolay Nekrasov (1856) brought him great success.
In 1847-1866 he held the post of the editor-publisher of the magazine "Sovremennik" ("Contemporary"). His writings represented the life of common people of cities, the life of Russian peasantry, and the destiny of Russian women. His poems Red-Nosed Frost Grandfather (1864), Russian Women (1871-1872), Who lives happy in the Russia(1866-1876).
Nekrasov's poetry was closely connected with folklore and had a great influence upon the Russian literature. The last years of his life are dedicated to the magazine "Otechestvennie zapiski" (Fatherland's notes).
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Nikolay Alekseyevich Nekrasov Poems
You're unhappy, sick at heart: Oh, I know it-here such sickness isn't rare. Nature can but mirror The surrounding poverty.
I Shall Soon Fall Prey To Rot
I shall soon fall prey to rot. Though it's hard to die, it's good to die; I shall ask for no one's pity, And there's no one who would pity me.
The Songs Of Siberian Exiles
We stand unbroken in our places, Our shovels dare to take no rest, For not in vain his golden treasure God buried deep in earth's dark breast.
The Love Letter
Letter of love so strangely thrilling With all your countless wonder yet, Though Time our heart's hot fires have mastered,
Hearing the terrors of the war, sore troubled, By each new victim of the combat torn-- Nor friend, nor wife I give my utmost pity,
Farewell! Forget the days of trial, Of grudge, ill humor, misery-- Tempests of heart and floods of weeping, And the revengeful jealousy.
On The Day Of Gogol's Death
How blessed's the good-natured poet, With little bile and much emotion: All lovers of the gentle arts Send him sincerest greetings;
Oft through my native land I roved before, But never such a cheerful spirit bore.
Thoughts At A Vestibule
Here's a vestibule. On holidays Overcome by slavish fear, The whole population, in a state of awe, Rushes to the sacred doors.
What The Sleepless Grandam Thinks
All through the cold night, beating wings shadowy Sweep o'er the church-village poor,-- Only one Grandam a hundred years hoary,
Ye Songs Of Mine!
Ye songs of mine! Of universal sorrows A living witness ye; Born of the passion of the soul, bewailing Tempestuous and free,
The Russian Soldier
Then up there comes a veteran, With medals on his breast; He scarcely lives, but yet contrives To drink with all the rest.
You're unhappy, sick at heart:
Oh, I know it-here such sickness isn't rare.
Nature can but mirror
The surrounding poverty.
All is ever drear and dismal,
Pastures, fields, and meadows,
Wet and drowsy jackdaws
Resting on the peaked haystacks;