Positive statements from great people about the village. Statuses about the village

Jewish priest - have you seen this?
No, not a rabbi, but an Orthodox priest,
Alabino vicar, near Moscow,
One of the prominent persons in the village.

Under a velvet bench, in a black cassock
A Jew can be seen every day:
Apostolically he walks through the mud
All four surrounding villages.

There is a lot of work, and he gets up early,
The roosters on the collective farm barely crow.
He crowns, he baptizes, and the parishioners
With a sigh he forgives their sins.

With a slight burr he serves mass,
He holds the censer with a pale hand.
Seeing off the departed on their final journey,
At the cemetery he sings for the repose...

He graduated from college in the fiftieth -
The diploma exceeded all praise.
Then work was found for all the guys -
And he alone knocked down the thresholds.

He was a Jew - the target of a rude joke,
Walked in those unimportant years,
He was considered a disabled person of the fifth group,
He wrote in the “Nationality” column: “Yes.”

A hundred-year-old grandfather is a find for the museum,
Parchment and old, like the Talmud,
Said, "Look at this Jew,
There is no way they will hire him.

Jew, tell me, where is the synagogue?
Pork-eating and treif through and through,
Knowing neither language nor God...
Yes, under the Tsar you would be the first goy."

"What? I could be baptized, for example,
And he would be born again full-fledged.
So the king persecuted me - for my faith,
And you - biologically, for blood."

So, with the tenth polite refusal
Jumping out of the ministerial doors,
Filled with the Most High goodness, immediately
A Jew went to holy Zagorsk.

Baptized without bureaucracy, quickly,
He stood up washed from worldly grievances,
He remained a Jew for the minister,
But the Metropolitan considered him Russian.

To a student, a seasoned crammer,
Seminary wisdom is nothing.
To the Holy Fathers for joy, without effort
He swallowed two courses a year jokingly.

Again a diploma, again an assignment...
But in vain the Jew is taken aback:
This time without any harm
He received the best parish.

There is a lot of money in the big church circle
Rabbi father, be happy and fat.
What the hell, not thank God again?
No, a Jew cannot live like a human being!

Well, I would drink vodka, eat chickens and ducks,
I would build a dacha and buy a ZIL, -
So no: holy district, no jokes
He imagined himself as a shepherd.

And here he stands, skinny and selfless,
And it pours like thunder from a thin chest
A stream of forgotten truths hits the parishioners,
Such as “thou shalt not kill,” “thou shalt not steal.”

We won't point fingers
But how many people remember these days:
Who wants to preach a sermon to people?
He shouldn't eat sweeter than them.

The Jew reads morality from the pulpit,
Sweeping away the trash from the souls of the lost...
Drop in crime in the area -
The prosecutor takes credit for it.

“Dear friend, in the village everyone can be a righteous man,” Lord Henry remarked with a smile. - There are no temptations there. For this reason, people living outside the city were not touched by civilization. Yes, yes, joining civilization is a very difficult matter. There are two ways for this: culture or so-called debauchery. But both are inaccessible to villagers. So they have become rigid in virtue.

I love you all my life and every day. You are above me like a big shadow, Like the ancient smoke of polar villages. I love you all my life and every hour. But I don’t need your lips and eyes. It all began and ended - without you. What am I -I remember: a ringing arc, a huge gate, clean snow, Star-studded horns And from the horns - into the full sky - a shadow And the ancient smoke of polar villages I understood: You are a reindeer.

Showing 15 of 15

Idleness; the most gaping void, the most devastating cross. That's why I - maybe - don't like villages and happy love.

"Facing the village" -
the task is given, -
for the harp,
poets-friends!
Understand -
my face
one -
it is a face, not a weather vane.

I apologize to you, dear Herzen, I haven’t written to you for a long time, although I often thought about you; but I spent all this time in the village, in complete solitude - and solitude produces in me every time an inexpressible laziness, which poetic language called silence, immersion in silence, etc.

You are my fallen maple, icy maple,
Why are you standing bent over under a white snowstorm?
Or what did you see? Or what did you hear?
It’s as if you went out for a walk outside the village.
And, like a drunken watchman, going out onto the road,
He drowned in a snowdrift and froze his leg.

In long-vanished summers
The philosopher wrote a fable
About two pots. If only he knew
How this fable fits here!
One was a clay pot,
The other is cast iron or copper;
They are in one poor village
A stream washed ashore.
And the clay one stood aside
Cast iron, fearing that he
He will be pushed and broken.
The lesson would be useful to many:
Compared to a woman, a man is
Cast iron pot; if with her
He'll hit a little harder
The cast iron is intact, but the clay is beating.

The friend, turning ugly, settled in the village.
The mirror had not heard of any princess there.
The river also ripples; and the earth is wrinkled -
and forgot to think about her men.
<...>
Go to the village, friend. In the field, especially in the grove
It’s easier to look at the ground and dress.
There you have one lipstick a hundred miles away,
but you still don’t need to take it out.

You can't hide from people in the village,
We have no secrets in the village, -
Don't get together, break up, don't get married
Away from picky eyes.

I worked in the village and lived with men.

I'm completely frozen, women! It was he who confessed his love to me in a human way for the first time. I grabbed him in my arms along with the log! I walk down the street! I kiss him! I kiss the log! And the women hatched from the windows - they were jealous! And as we entered the chamomile field, I saw Ninka dragging her on her back. Drive Tamark with his batogs. Even Fedotovna pushes her old man on a cart! And everyone kisses and hugs! Men tear daisies and stick them in their heads! And at night there was such a screeching sound throughout the village - the nightingales listened, the dogs howled at the moon, the roosters slept through the morning, and the milk in the cows turned sour. That's what love is!

I live in a big city and feel like I’m in a village - everyone will know. I go and say hello to everyone. I can’t refuse an autograph or a request to take a photo with me. It does not bother me. I knew what I was getting into when I poked my face into the TV.

A Russian woman is always the same: both in the city and in the countryside, she is always looking for something, some lost pin, and she can’t keep silent about the fact that finding this pin can save the world.

They meet to part,
They fall in love only to fall out of love.
I want to laugh
And burst into tears and not live!
They swear in order to break their vows,
They dream to curse dreams...
Oh, woe to those who understand
All pleasures are in vain.
The village wants a capital...
In the capital you want soul...
And there are human faces everywhere
Inhuman soul...
How often beauty is ugly
And there is beauty in ugliness...
How often is baseness noble?
And innocent lips are evil.
So how can you not laugh?
Don't burst into tears, how can you live?
When is it possible to separate?
When is it possible to fall out of love?

My village smells of many, many,
It’s impossible to count all her smells.
When I was tired from the big road,
I wanted to breathe in the countryside.

I remember the smell of a wonderful winter night,
but it cannot be compared with anything.
Here the spinning wheel chirps unobtrusively,
And mother spins a harsh thread.

The smell of fresh, warm bread coming from the oven,
Baked and fragrant milk.
Those are the smells from the divine sky,
And is there anything else you need to dream about?

And there is no May without the smell of lilacs,
Without the morning smell of dew.
Without rainbows and spring rain,
The rolling roar of a thunderstorm.

Here summer heat fragrant smells like mint,
and the smell of thyme comes from the fields.
And like flowers, rural girls,
friends from my long-time youth.

The autumn evening smells like a round dance,
an accordion and a song by the river.
Those smells of fun and nature
close to the village heart.

How tenderly white birch trees smell,
There is no Russian village without birches.
Let there be smells of manure sometimes,
Where bread grows, manure smells.

I love to inhale all the smells from the road,
returning again to the countryside.
Here the father's thresholds smell like mother,
My homeland smells like a village.

Peter Chernykh

This is my village
This is my home.
Here I am sledding
Steep up the mountain...

Ivan Surikov

I love my native village,
I love my wonderful land
House on a high hill
Geraniums bloom on the window.
I love forests and rivers,
And a path along the fields,
And the heady smell of hay,
And the buzzing of bumblebees.
I love spring blossoms
And autumn leaf fall.
I love winter's creations
Summer heat and snowfall.
There is no dearer region in the world
Where would I be so happy?
I'll never forget
Places dear to the heart.

Paranin Valery

What is a village?
These are ruddy dawns and sunsets,
Clean air, river and cliff
These are herbs that are fragrant in the spacious field.
I was born and raised in the village.

You are so dear:
Now you're in white, then you're green again,
At night you dream and your heart calls
I feel calm, my soul is peaceful here,
Because she lives here.

What is a village?
These are frequent meetings on the street.
And everyone has their own character.
Early in the morning the loud roosters will wake you up,
And your working day will begin.

And again over the village
Evil spirits and winds are swaggering.
The forests and herds have thinned out.
But I believe fate will be favorable -
Happiness will come here again.

What is a village?
Peasant labor to the point of salty sweat.
And here the sour cream is cut with a knife.
And from the edge, whitewashed with birch trunks,
I'm delighted, I'm amazed by it.

Borisenko A.

In the village God does not live in corners,
as scoffers think, but everywhere.
He sanctifies the roof and dishes
and honestly divides the doors in half.
In the village He is in abundance. In cast iron
He cooks lentils on Saturdays,
dances sleepily on the fire,
winks at me as an eyewitness.
He puts up fences. Issues
the girl for the forester. And as a joke
arranges for eternal underestimation
to a buster shooting a duck.
The opportunity to observe all this,
listening to the autumn whistle,
the only, in general, grace,
available in the village to an atheist.

Joseph Brodsky

I love the countryside and summer:
And the talk of the waters, and the shadow of the oak trees,
And the incense of flowers;
What soul doesn't love this?
Be it so, I forgive mosquitoes!
But I confess - a desert dweller,
Loving the deserted peace in her,
Two-legged mosquito, guest-tormentor,
No, I don't forgive you!

Baratynsky Evgeniy

In the village I am grateful to the house
And grateful to the roof, grateful to the stove,
Especially when the trees bend down
And the wind extinguishes the stars like candles.
I am grateful to the cricket in the village,
Both wick and kerosene.
Especially when the snowstorm hits
At the top of his voice.
I am grateful to my neighbor and my neighbor,
Guard dog.
Especially when the moon is through the branches
Looks in the dark.
And grateful to the right mind
And a good letter to the village...
Thanks to love and everything,
Thanks to everyone!

Samoilov David

The village is sleeping. Snow covered roofs -
Unfurled flags of truce.
Everything is so quiet that it couldn’t be quieter.

Satyr is drawn in dry bushes
Head threat. The runners shine
Upside down inverted sleigh. In the overworld

The soul flies. The mind is filled with dreamlessness.

Igor Severyanin

Favorite village!
Dear corner of the heart,
I want to congratulate you on your anniversary!
And shout loudly, like a shepherd into a horn:
- I love you, beautiful village!
I was born here and live here
And I go to school in the 7th grade.
Even if I walk around the whole country,
But I won’t find a better village anywhere.

Kovalevskaya Daria

I love visiting my native village,
There are trees in the front gardens.
There are “cranes” in the gardens,
To take the juice of the earth from the depths.
There are curtains on the windows,
There are geraniums behind the curtains.
There's even the harshest shout
Doesn't feel like swearing.
Everyone there, meeting you,
Raises his cap above himself.
And on the pillars, like a gate guard,
The rooster crows, or the cat dozes.
You can meet Amazons there
On galloping horses...
There is the voice of the Motherland from the cradle
Entered me.

Nikon Sochikhin

The village, but in fact the whole village.
History didn't take place here.
Either the twentieth century or the twentieth
before the Nativity of Christ, and lancet
Gothic gray pine forest
has been buzzing ever since.
Either the twentieth century or the second.
Forgotten by the ancient game
into history
eternal hut
and the quiet hopeless cry of a child.
Earth and sky. Between is a person.
No details. Who knows what century.

Slutsky Boris

In the village, the evening dawns a little,
Young people play, weaving into a round dance,
The harmonica sounds and the song resounds
So sad that it touches your heart.
But sadness became akin to the peasant soul,
She always lives in the exhausted chest
And it accelerates only with a native song.
Unharnessed from the plow, the horse is tired in the middle of the field
Grazing in a herd; I quietly enter the house,
So that you can rest overnight and so that at dawn the scarlet
Wake up and again with a fellow horse
On the field all day long, work with new strength,
Exploding furrows, or cutting rye with a sickle,
The fragrant sheaves are ready to be transported.
And a warm evening is sometimes so fragrant and clear,
When the verse of a folk song spreads.
Oh, how her language is both sonorous and beautiful,
How much can be heard in her torment experienced

Spiridon Drozhzhin

It's nice in the village in summer,
Clean air, fresh wind.
You go out onto the porch in the morning -
The scent of flowers in your face.
Chickens walk around the yard
The pig sends greetings: “Oink - oink.”
Good-natured cow
He will give me some fresh milk.
Behind the neighbor's fence
Turkeys are having a conversation.
How delicious
Eat berries from the bush!
Black currant
Special for me!

Behind the outskirts there is a river,
Cover the bottom of the shell.
The gander flaps its wings:
“Go away enemy!”
Takes on a menacing appearance.
And it hisses terribly.
There is a forest just beyond the river.
Mushroom pickers are interested in it.
Strawberries in the meadows,
Red-sided, red-faced.
And above her is a dragonfly
Flies into the sky.

It's nice in the village in summer,
Good for adults and children.

Serezhkin Sergey

Countrymen are leaving their villages
They transport housing to villages,
Leaving only trees
Yes, the wattle fences and fences are rotten.
From other villages along the hut
It survived, and the places are unrecognizable,
And, frightened by the desertion, the old women
Here they go to each other's houses to spend the night.
And they are already talking in the village council
And in the regional center, that soon the earth will
Where are these other houses located?
It will go under meadows and fields.
Life dictates, life makes decisions,
Life gives answers to questions.
And some villages die,
And others will be born.

Nikolai Kutov

Build a monument to the village
On Red Square in Moscow!
There will be old trees
There will be apples in the grass.

And a rickety hut
With the porch crumbling to dust,
And the mother of the dead soldier
With a shameful pension in hand!

And two pots on the palisade,
And an inch of unplowed land,
Like a symbol of an abandoned field,
Long lying in the dust!

And let him sing in melancholy and pain
Unsober accordion player
About the incomprehensible Russian fate
To the quiet crying and whistling of the wind!

Let the children timidly stand next to you,
What still grows in the villages -
As their inheritance in this world -
All the same black slave labor!

The women will sit down on the bench,
And everything in them will be as always:
And boots and padded jackets
And the look faded into “nowhere”!..

Erect a monument to the village,
To show at least once
How submissively, how without anger
The village is waiting for its death hour!

They broke bones, tore veins,
But no protests, no struggles -
Just one “Lord, have mercy!”
And faith in the righteousness of fate.

Build a monument to the village
On Red Square in Moscow...
There will be old trees
And there will be apples in the grass...

Although the passerby curses
The roads of my coasts,
I love the village of Nikola,
Where did you graduate from primary school?

It happens that a dusty boy
We come after the guest
He's in too much of a hurry to get on the road:
“I’ll leave here too!”

Among the surprised girls
Brave, barely out of diapers:
- Well, why wander around the province?
It's time to go to the capital!

When will he grow up in the capital,
Looks at life abroad
Then he will appreciate Nikola,
Where did you graduate from primary school...

Rubtsov Nikolay

My native village,
My house is near the river.
The water is very close
It flows, makes noise, shines.
And bright dragonflies
They scurry over the reeds.
The picture is so pleasing,
And there is comfort in my soul!
Green hills are visible.
Trees grow there
Foxes, wolves, hares -
everyone lives here
My favorite village!
You are already 200 years old!
But for me in the world
There is no more wonderful region!

Buryan Victoria

I love you, my native land!
You live as a song in my soul.
I ran through the puddles here barefoot,
And for me there is no corner of miles.
Now, although years have passed,
My family often comes to the village.
I see everything, houses and gardens,
And bathhouses on a hill above the river.
Our baths were heated black,
I think I smell that smell.
Here mom looks out the window from behind the geraniums,
He will call me to the bathhouse as before.
But there are no houses, and the bathhouses have all disappeared,
Bird cherry trees still grow here as before.
And the nightingales sing their dashing songs,
In the evenings they sing in their thickets.
Sing, birds! We loved listening to you.
Let the sounds of birds be heard everywhere!
You have nothing to do with it, we, the people, ruined
There are many nice villages in the area.

Kryuchkova N.

The fields are compressed, the groves are bare,
Water causes fog and dampness.
Wheel behind the blue mountains
The sun went down quietly.

The dug-up road sleeps.
Today she dreamed
Which is very, very little
We have to wait for the gray winter.

Oh, and I myself am in the ringing thicket
I saw this in the fog yesterday:
Red moon as a foal
He harnessed himself to our sleigh.

Sergey Yesenin

My land of godforsaken villages,
Chamomile open spaces and forests,
Where is Gorbachev's wind of change?
Didn't destroy the foundations of life.

Here the soul and home are wide open
There will always be bread and milk
The bins will be opened for the traveler
It doesn't matter that people don't know him.

A clean bed will be laid out in the hut.
If you want, go to sleep in the hayloft.
All doors to the house are open for guests,
No one locked them.

The wind scattered the ruts of the roads.
In the meadows the trace of the native path is overgrown.
There are no owners, the threshold has crumbled.
And the village no longer exists either.

I'll look into an abandoned well,
Where the mossy log house hides in the darkness.
The chain rattles, descending into the depths,
I'll scoop up a bucket of water for myself.

And I drink this water over the edge,
Shots are knocked out by teeth on a bucket,
The reserved region gives me strength
With water, pouring into the sinful insides.

Gray poplars rustle with their leaves,
A chorus of grasshoppers chirps in the grass.
To me this is the sun, sky and earth
More precious than life and dearest to all.

Solovyov Yuri

There are villages in Russia,
That they are far from the world.
Slowly, little by little
Old people grow old in them.
Childhood - somewhere across the river,
Youth lives in the twilight...
Who gives them water? Who feeds them?
Who sings them songs?
Only rain, lost in the summer,
Bird talk in silence
Only the sky with winter light,
Yes, geraniums on the window.
But the grief did not eat into the faces,
And there is no heavy melancholy:
Apparently, I’m still dreaming about something,
Something good, like light.
Apparently, they don’t put us in harm’s way.
That we don't feel sin
And withered fingers
They baptize us from afar.

Ernst Usmanov

The day is getting thicker, it's already evening
With a mallet around the yard
He walks around in a cloth coat
And it scares the kids.

The hominy is tired,
Asks to be made of cast iron.
Suddenly - on the roof of the old barn
The moon is rolling through the window,

Yellow oil creeps into the porridge.
There will be dinner - no matter where!
And the toast with onions sizzles
There is a frying pan on the table.

The kids are waiting for dad for dinner,
They sat in a row at the table.
Hear: on the steps on the porch
His steps make noise.

The elder corrects the younger
A pulled cap.
At this time, smiling,
The father enters the upper room.

And puts gifts on the table,
What did you bring from the city?
And grandparents laugh,
And the old dog tails.

With your arms crossed on your chest,
Mom is standing at the window,
Only a cat on a warm stove
Does not say anything.

Terenty Travnik

My village! Native village!
Path and willow above the river.
And behind the birches in the rye
The cornflower stars turn blue.
White daisy clouds
They beckon to the meadows until autumn.
The clear air is intoxicating
And the wind plays in the reeds.
The heart aches not from pain,
From the singing of a painted accordion.

My village! Native village!
My an old house. My yard.
Lilac bushes by the porch.
Father's old bench.
A well with a creaky gate,
Cold water is the best.
My old house keeps me warm.
A rowan grows under the window.
Everything here is painfully familiar to me.
All this is given from above - by God.

My village! Native village!
Above Tsnoya the sky is blue.
A strip of slender birch trees.
The dew glows like a diamond.
The fog flows like milk.
This is where I lived. This is my father's house.
This is where my childhood passed.
Here in the cradle my mother rocked me.
She grew up with a simple-minded soul.
My village! My native land!

I love driving up to the village in the evening,
Follow your eyes over the old church
A flock of crows playing;
Among large fields, reserved meadows,
On the quiet shores of bays and ponds
I like to listen to bark
Dogs that do not sleep, the lowing of heavy herds;
I love an abandoned and desolate garden
And the unshakable shadows loomed;
The glass wave does not tremble the air;
You stand and listen - and your chest is intoxicated
The bliss of serene laziness...
You look thoughtfully at the faces of the men -
And you understand them; ready to surrender myself
Their poor, simple life...
An old woman goes to the well for water;
The tall pole creaks and bends; in succession
Horses approach the trough...
A passerby began to sing a song... Sad sound!
But he shouted dashingly - and only a knock was heard
The wheels of his cart are shaking;
A girl comes out onto a low porch -
And he looks at the dawn... and his round face
It turned scarlet, bright.
Swinging slowly, from the hill behind the village,
Huge carts descend in single file
With the fragrant tribute of a lush cornfield;
Behind the green and thick hemp
They run, dressed in blue fog,
The steppes have wide floods.
That steppe - there is no end to it... spread out, lies...
The flowing breeze runs, it won’t run...
The earth is languishing, the sky is darkening...
And the long forests will twitch their sides
Golden crimson, and he grumbles slightly,
And it calms down and turns blue...

Ivan Turgenev

The old wing rattles on the potholes,
My grandfather’s village disappeared behind the ravines.
I'm pushing my bike along the path,
A corrugated tire trail stretches behind my back.

A smooth wave lulls ahead
Delicate inflorescences of young flax.
The northern sun pours onto the fields,
The sleepy earth smells like wet clay.

Showing off your magnificent outfit to the world,
Slow clouds hover above me.
And the ethereal cloud shadow slides
Along sunny valleys, village roofs...

Along the narrow path, leaving a trace,
slowly, I rock my bike forward.

Solovyov Yuri

I vaguely remember a village house,
A large spinning wheel with a delicate tow,
And the canopy over the bed is covered with red roses,
And apple trees in the snowdrifts outside the window.
And my mother was embroidering by the fire...
The thimble sparkled and the light flashed.
I listened to the fairy tale - and me
I was once shocked by its great meaning.
And I began to live with my heart in that fairy tale,
Where is dislike, having passed all the tests,
Once turned into beauty
By the magic of love and compassion.
How I loved our wilderness,
Gardens above the blizzard, in the large stars of the night!
And there were geraniums growing on our window -
From the things of a fairy tale, a scarlet flower.
How many years have passed!..
So many thoughts
Thought out
How sad the losses are!..
But the springs of origins are eternally holy:
They watered our hearts and minds.
I believe in the power of simple words
I still believe, as the children believe:
In any trouble, in any hard time
Love will overcome melancholy and horror.
Will hatch from a fairy tale in good time,
Will disperse the darkness of a dull, stormy night
And sweet beauty more than once
A scarlet flower will save you from death.

Elida Dubrovina

I love your sad shelter,
And the evening of the village is deaf,
And beyond the summer there is a distant message,
And the roof and the cross are golden.
I love the untroubled meadow
Steam creeping towards the window,
And a close, quiet circle
The samovar has been refilled more than once.
I love those gatherings
Old lady cap and glasses;
I love it on the window on plates
Oats golden cereals;
On the table close to the window
A basket with a patterned stocking,
And a frisky cat across the floor
Jumping after a nimble ball;
And a sweet, shy granddaughter
Beautiful girlish outfit,
Movement of a pale hand
And a timidly lowered gaze;
Farewell to the silent birds
And the moon's pale sunrise,
The shaking of porcelain cups
And the speech is slow;
And my own invention of a fairy tale,
The coolness of the evening stream
And you, curious eyes,
My living reward!

Afanasy Fet

Quiet street in the middle of the village,
The house is wooden, there are poplars nearby.
Two lilac bushes
Cherry tree under the window.
I spent my childhood here
With mother, father.
Went fishing
I went mushroom picking
By the night fire
Komarov fed...
I often remember
I'm sweet places
Carefree childhood
Your mother, your father.
Two lilac bushes
Cherry under the window
And friends and comrades
In that native village...
Everything that is dear to the heart -
I keep it in my memory.
Little Motherland
I remember and love.

Arsenina E.

That I ran through puddles barefoot as a child.
Ten kilometers away, in any bad weather,
I went to school with the children, back and forth, on foot.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
What wooden spoon I slurped soup and cabbage soup.
And in a reliable, proven, folk way,
My mother treated me on a “fiery” stove.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
I went to pick mushrooms in the neighboring forests,
And I felt happiness, my soul, freedom,
When, falling on the grass, she looked into the heavens.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
That I once had to live in poverty, in work,
But the years we lived there only taught us
Love and respect, and value people's work.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
I’ll tell you without coquetry that I’m proud of this!
And I feel in my soul that I am a child of nature...
Even if they consider me a hillbilly, yes.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
Now I never saw such sunsets.
And the years will not erase my village from memory.
Thank you, Lord, that I had the opportunity to live there.

And I don’t hide the fact that I come from a village,
So, accept it as it is.
I won’t change to please anyone.
I was born in a village, and I am praised and honored.

I the last poet villages
The plank bridge is modest in its songs.
At the farewell mass I stand
Birch trees burning with leaves.
Will burn out with a golden flame
A candle made of flesh wax,
And the moon clock is wooden
They will wheeze my twelfth hour.
On the blue field path
The Iron Guest will be out soon.
Oatmeal, spilled by dawn,
A black handful will collect it.
Not living, alien palms,
These songs will not live with you!
There will only be ears of corn
To grieve about the old owner.
The wind will suck their neighing,
Funeral dance celebrating.
Soon, soon wooden clock
They will wheeze my twelfth hour!

Sergey Yesenin

What desperate screams
And the din and the fluttering of wings?
Who is this hubbub insanely wild
So inappropriately aroused?
Flock of tame geese and ducks
Suddenly she goes wild and flies.
Flying - where, without knowing,
And how crazy she sounds.
What a sudden alarm
All these voices are heard!
Not a dog, but a four-legged demon,
The demon turned into a dog
In a fit of riot, for fun,
Self-confident impudent
Confused their majestic peace
And he opened them, dispersed them!
And as if he himself, following them,
To complete the insults,
With your nerves of steel,
Having risen into the air, it will fly!
What is the point in this movement?
Why all this waste of energy?
Why are you afraid of such a flight?
Did you give wings to geese and ducks?
Yes, there is a purpose here! In the lazy herd
A terrible stagnation was noticed,
And it became necessary, for the sake of progress,
The sudden onslaught of the fatal.
And here is good providence
The tomboy has been released from the chain,
To fulfill your destiny
Don't forget them completely.
So modern manifestations
The meaning is sometimes stupid, -
But the same modern genius
I'm always ready to find out.
Others, you say, just bark,
And he performs his highest duty -
He, comprehending, develops
Duck and goose talk.

Fedor Tyutchev

Greetings, deserted corner,
A haven of peace, work and inspiration,
Where the invisible stream of my days flows
In the bosom of happiness and oblivion.
I am yours - I exchanged the vicious court for Circe,
Luxurious feasts, fun, delusions
To the peaceful sound of oak trees, to the silence of fields,
For free idleness, a friend of reflection.
I am yours - I love this dark garden
With its coolness and flowers,
This meadow, filled with fragrant stacks,
Where bright streams rustle in the bushes.
Everywhere in front of me there are moving pictures:
Here I see two lakes, azure plains,
Where the fisherman's sail sometimes turns white,
Behind them are a series of hills and striped fields,
Scattered huts in the distance,
On the damp banks wandering herds,
The barns are smoky and the mills are cold;
Everywhere there are traces of contentment and labor...
I am here, freed from vain shackles,
I am learning to find bliss in the truth,
With a free soul to worship the law,
Do not listen to the murmurs of the unenlightened crowd,
Participate in answering a shy plea
And don't envy fate
A villain or a fool - in unjust greatness.
Oracles of the ages, here I ask you!
In majestic solitude
Your joyful voice can be heard more clearly.
He drives away the gloomy sleep of laziness,
The heat in me gives rise to work,
And your creative thoughts
They ripen in the depths of the soul.
But a terrible thought here darkens the soul:
Among flowering fields and mountains
A friend of humanity sadly remarks
Everywhere ignorance is a murderous shame.
Without seeing the tears, without listening to the groan,
Chosen by fate for the destruction of people,
Here the nobility is wild, without feeling, without law,
Appropriated by a violent vine
And labor, and property, and the time of the farmer.
Leaning on an alien plow, submitting to the scourge,
Here skinny slavery drags along the reins
An unforgiving owner.
Here a painful yoke drags everyone to the grave,
Not daring to harbor hopes and inclinations in my soul,
Here young maidens bloom
For the whim of an insensitive villain.
Dear support for aging fathers,
Young sons, comrades of labor,
From their native hut they go to multiply
Yard crowds of exhausted slaves.
Oh, if only my voice could disturb hearts!
There seems to be a barren heat burning in my chest
And hasn’t the fate of my life given me a formidable gift?
I'll see, oh friends! unoppressed people
And slavery, which fell due to the king’s mania,
And over the fatherland of enlightened freedom
Will the beautiful dawn finally rise?

Alexander Pushkin

In the village

Really, isn’t this a crow club?
Near our parish today?
And today... well, it’s just a disaster!
Stupid croaking, wild groans...
It seems like there are crows from all over the world
They fly here in the evenings.
Here are more, and more squadrons...
They sat side by side on the dome, on the cross,
In the bell tower, in the nearby hut, -
There's a swaying pole by the fence:
Two fit at the very top,
They flap their wings... It’s all the same again,
Just like yesterday... they’ll sit and go!
Be lazy! raven watch!
The black clouds are gone, thank God
The wind has calmed down: I’ll walk to the fields.
It's been dull and rainy since the morning,
Today turned out to be an unlucky day:
For nothing in the swamp I got wet to the bones,
I decided to work, but work doesn’t work,
Lo and behold, it’s already evening - the crows are flying...
Two old women met at the well,
Let me hear what they say...

- Hello, dear. - “How can this be, gossip?
Are you still crying?
There's a bitter thought in my heart, you know,
Like a big-city owner?”
- How can you not cry? I'm lost, sinner!
Darling aches and hurts...
He died, Kasyanovna, he died, my dear,
Died and buried in the ground!

After all, I ran into such a reptile!
Wasn't my son a daredevil?
Forty bears were counterfeited with a spear -
On the forty-first I failed!
I'm tall, I have an iron hand,
Shoulders - oblique fathom;
Died, Kasyanovna, died, sick, -
This is the thirteenth day!

They skinned the bear and sold it;
Money - seventeen rubles -
They gave for the soul of poor Savushka,
The kingdom of heaven is hers!
Good lady Marya Romanovna
Gave for the funeral service...
He died, my dear, he died, Kasyanovna, -
I barely made it home.

The wind shakes the wretched hut,
The whole barn fell apart...
Like crazy, I went along the road:
Will my son get caught?
I would take a hatchet - the problem is fixable, -
Mother would console her...

Is it necessary? I'm selling the axe.

Who will take care of a rootless old woman?
Everything has become completely impoverished!
In the rainy autumn, in the cold winter
Who will store firewood for me?
Who, as you hear a warm fur coat,
Will he get some new bunnies?
He died, Kasyanovna, he died, my dear, -
The gun will go to waste!

Do you believe, dear: with longing and with worries
I'm so sick of the world!
I'll lie down in the closet and cover myself with snares,
Like a shroud... No!
Death does not come... I wander unsociable,
I’m complaining to everyone in vain...
He died, Kasyanovna, he died, my dear, -
Eh! if only it weren’t a sin...

Well, yes and so... God forbid you get through the winter,
I can’t crush fresh grass!
Soon the hut will be completely shaken,
There is no one to plow the field.
Marya Romanovna is going to the city,
I don’t have the strength to walk around the world...
He died, my dear, he died, Kasyanovna,
And he didn’t tell me to live long!

The old woman is crying. What do I care?
Why regret it if there is nothing to help?..
My weary body is weak,
Time for bed. My night is not long:
Tomorrow I'll go hunting early,
I need to sleep better before the light...
So the crows are ready to fly away,
The reception is over... Well, get going!
So they stood up and croaked at once.
- Listen, be equal! - The whole flock is flying:
It seems as if between the sky and the eye
The black mesh is hanging.

Nikolay Nekrasov