"Autumn Morning" A. Pushkin. autumn morning autumn morning

"Autumn Morning" Alexander Pushkin

There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude is announced
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream fell.
A shadow has already fallen from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me is a deaf desolation ...
She's gone... I was off the coast,
Where the darling went on a clear evening;
On the shore, on the green meadows
I did not find a few visible traces,
Left by her beautiful foot.
Thoughtfully wandering in the wilderness of forests,
I spoke the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
The empty valleys called her in the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone! .. Until the sweet spring
I said goodbye with bliss and soul.
Already in autumn with a cold hand
The heads of birches and lindens are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak forests;
There, day and night, a yellow leaf is spinning,
There is a fog on the waves of the cooled,
And an instant wind whistle is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my anguish, fun!
You are forgotten ... until the sweet spring!

Analysis of Pushkin's poem "Autumn Morning"

The elegiac motifs that arise in Pushkin's work of the last lyceum years are due to autobiographical reasons. The young author was not indifferent to Ekaterina Bakunina, the sister of one of his fellow students, whose family lived for a short time in Tsarskoe Selo. The work, dated 1816, reflects the feelings of a young man in love who survived the Bakunins' departure to the capital in the autumn of that year. This event inspired the poet to create “Separation” (“When the last hour of happiness struck ...”), the hero of which cannot get rid of despondency and “deadly boredom”.

Landscape paintings, which abound in the analyzed poem, are endowed with psychological overtones: following the laws of the genre, they are inseparable from the internal state of the subject of speech. Fields and trees devastated by the "cold hand" of the imperious autumn, thinned forests strewn with "dead" leaves, foggy fields, gusty wind - a natural sketch leaves a sad impression.

Importance is given to the motive of the vain search for the beloved. The hero confidently reports the futility of the event: there are no traces of the “beautiful” on the shore, only a forest echo responds to the sound of her name, metaphorically identified with a “solitary voice”, the “incomparable” face is not reflected in the jets of the stream.

Morning sadness and apathy of the lyrical "I" are explained by the negative results of the search, to which the abandoned lover came the day before. Interestingly, in the beginning, the mood of the subject of speech is opposed to the revival of the natural world associated with the sunrise. The pale radiance of the day contrasts with the "deaf desolation" reigning in the soul, the merciless reality - with the healing effect of a dream-dream.

Comprehending personal experiences, the hero models another antithesis: a sad autumn, symbolizing a depressive present, is opposed to a promising future, associated with the image of a “sweet spring”. The hopeless atmosphere of elegiac sadness is diluted with optimistic notes of hope for future changes.

The poetic text ends with an emotional appeal to the fields, forests and hills. Being subjected to personification, the listed natural images acquire an important status of keepers of silence and witnesses of past happiness. Saying goodbye to them, the hero is counting on a joyful meeting in the spring, after the long-awaited return of his beloved.

“How sweet she is!” Pushkin exclaimed when he first saw the sister of his lyceum friend, Ekaterina Bakunina. The girl who struck the ardent imagination of the young poet was his muse for a long time. It is impossible to read the poem “Autumn Morning” by Pushkin Alexander Sergeevich and not admire the power of describing the first romantic love. The poem was written in 1816. By this time, the nature of the poet's lyrics is seriously changing, he turns to the genre of elegy. With E.P. Bakunina, the sister of A. Bakunin, Pushkin first met at one of the lyceum balls. According to the memoirs of a fellow poet, S.D. Komovsky, his passion was platonic. Ekaterina Bakunina, from the height of her twenty years, looked at the seventeen-year-old boy as if she were a child.

The text of Pushkin's poem "Autumn Morning" includes literary clichés of that time. The young poet, trying to find traces of his muse in the Tsarskoye Selo forests and groves, laments not only that his feelings do not find a response in the soul of his beloved. He says goodbye to youth, feels how, in tune with the falling asleep nature, his soul, which has known bitterness and pain, is fading away. In this work, which takes place at a literature lesson in grade 5, philosophical notes are clearly audible. In the deserted oak forests, “a dead leaf is spinning day and night”, on the “yellowed fields” there is a thick fog. But if young Pushkin associates autumn with death, then “sweet” spring is a symbol of resurrection. The lyrical hero lives in anticipation of a new meeting with his beloved.

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There was a noise; field pipe
My solitude is announced
And with the image of a mistress draga
The last dream fell.
A shadow has already fallen from the sky.
The dawn has risen, the pale day is shining -
And all around me is a deaf desolation ...
She's gone... I was off the coast,
Where the darling went on a clear evening;
On the shore, on the green meadows
I did not find any visible traces,
Left by her beautiful foot.
Thoughtfully wandering in the wilderness of forests,
I spoke the name of the incomparable;
I called her - and a solitary voice
The empty valleys called her into the distance.
He came to the stream, attracted by dreams;
Its streams flowed slowly,
The unforgettable image did not tremble in them.
She's gone!.. Until the sweet spring
I said goodbye with bliss and soul.
Already in autumn with a cold hand
The heads of birches and lindens are bare,
She rustles in the deserted oak forests;
There, day and night, a yellow leaf is spinning,
There is a fog on the waves of the cooled,
And an instant wind whistle is heard.
Fields, hills, familiar oak forests!
Keepers of sacred silence!
Witnesses of my anguish, fun!
You are forgotten ... until the sweet spring!

Great about verses:

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Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

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Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

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Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
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Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

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Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.

Autumn. Fairy tale,
All open for review.
clearings of forest roads,
Looking into the lakes

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Autumn. ancient corner
Old books, clothes, weapons,
Where is the treasure catalog
Flips through the cold.

(B. Pasternak)

Morning. A beautiful autumn morning. You open your eyes and smile, rejoicing that you are alive. Are you happy. And the first thing you do is look out the window. Breathe in fresh, slightly bitter air. Now it is gradually acquiring autumn calm, becoming more saturated than in summer. Autumn air: refined. And if you imagine, you can see how a barely noticeable transparent veil covers everything in the area. You see the rays of the rising sun. They cheerfully flash along the walls of houses, trying to get to the last floors as quickly as possible and soar up. Right now, on an early autumn morning, you like to go outside, take a walk. There are very few cars, the city is just beginning to wake up. You walk, rare cars at this hour rush past you. On one side of you are mountains shrouded in morning mist. On the other hand, a pine forest. The air, not yet completely warmed by the sun, has that freshness that is only in the morning. pine trees mixed with mist, an unusual and unforgettable combination of aromas. You look at the occasionally passing cars and rejoice that you now have time. Without haste, without a race, enjoy everything that only Nature can give you.

You thank the Universe for the most beautiful and priceless gift on earth -! People are sad and longing for autumn. They do not know that in the fall you can rejoice. And you learn to enjoy everything and always. Be grateful for everything you have now. In fact, people are always dissatisfied with everything. When a person knows how to rejoice and accept a little, he will definitely receive more. But if he is dissatisfied with what he has, what kind of joy and gratitude can he experience when receiving more?! Be grateful every minute of your life and your life will turn into a miracle!!!

Have a wonderful autumn, my dears!

Autumn Morning. Fog shrouded the city.
Trees wander in white smoke.
The sky is wrapped in gray
Through which the rays of the sun will seep through.

But the dank wind will disperse
Mists attack. He will melt
A gray cover in the heavenly distance.
Sprinkling it with dew on the grass.

The autumn wind will wake up the rays of the sun
And swirl the golden foliage in the fall of the leaves.
And then under the crimson waltz of leaf fall
He will sing the melody of golden October.

I open the autumn morning, casting aside the fog.
Chilled sky, poured into thick puddles.
Forgotten dreams crawl back into the screen.
Awareness of yourself as an answer that you are still needed.

Paint on foliage the conversations of empty squares,
Footprints on the calluses of the dancing streets.
And clinging to the temple for myself to repeat: "Do not kill",
And tired of the struggle to leave, stooping in inevitability.

I open the autumn morning, ... but the lock is broken ....
The fertile sky lifts to itself on the shoulders.
Just one conversation... Only one...

Autumn morning, gray frowns.
Autumn morning, drizzling rain.
I'm driving down a narrow and wet street.
Quiet, only the rain on the car knocks.

Autumn morning, rainy morning.
It's chilly and damp, but you have to be patient.
A warm heart means happy.
And in the rain, I can warm myself with it.

There are different days in life.
You can even in the rain, smile and sing.
In life, there are beautiful days with rain.
If you know how to burn your heart in it.

Boring, on a sunny day too stuffy.
In the rain - he is cold, sad at all ...

Autumn gray morning
The fog floats over the river
Birch branches sadly
Fasten on the edge of the forest.

The last leaves from the trees
Trying to blow the wind
Chilling threads of rain
They're trying to get through everything.

Here the clouds dispersed, the sun
Everything lit up
And joyfully shines in the window,
And the sky beckons blue.

The night crept unnoticed
Light up the stars in the sky,
The moon illuminated everything
She brought frost with her.

And in the morning everything is wonderful,
All hoarfrost covered with silver
And solar gold of heaven ...

Autumn in Israel slowly drags on
Like I'm tired of running.
It will stop, as if looking back,
Then he suddenly goes to sleep

Morning cooled down with sweaty drops
Will change the boring heat
And the breeze with soapy foam, flakes
The surf will overwhelm.

The roofs are covered with palm branches
The stars will light up the sukkah
And the baskets are filled with grapes,
The year has been turned into flour.

New shoots will become hopes
For the upcoming mowing
Light colors, light clothes
Only without Russian birches.

Morning chilled with drops...