Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov: 3 Poems

Mikhail Yuryevich Lermontov

(Михаи́л Ю́рьевич Ле́рмонтов 1814 – 1841)

 

The Angel

 

One midnight an angel flew over the sky,

With a song on his lips he did fly,

And a bevy of clouds, the bright moon and the stars

To his song listened, rapt, from afar.

 

Of the sinless he sang that in paradise dwell,

Of the bliss that is theirs he did tell,

Of the glory of God sang he too, and sincere,

True and simple his praises they were.

 

In his arms a babe’s soul held he, bearing it to

This dark world where, alas, joys are few,

And the sound of his song, its celestial strains

With that young soul did wordless remain.

 

Long it languished on earth, full of dreams and desires,

With the sounds born of Heaven afire,

And the dull songs of earth, though the air they did fill,

These rare, heavenly sounds could not still.

 

 

The captive

 

Break my chains and ope my dungeon,

Let me see the light of day;

Call you nigh a dark-eyed maiden

And a black-maned steed, I pray.

First I’ll kiss the young maid sweetly,

Then upon the steed’s back fleetly

Spring, and with a shout and cry,

‘Cross the green steppe wind-like fly.

 

Dark my prison is and sombre,

And the door is locked and barred.

Sad the maid sits in her chamber,

From the one who loves her far;

And my good steed ‘thout a bridle

In the green field wanders idle

Or, up dale and then down hill,

Head held high, trots at his will.

 

All alone am I, and trying

Is my lot: on bare stone walls

From a smoke-stained lamp a dying,

Cheerless ray, uncertain, falls;

While behind the door the faceless

Sentry walks, his measured paces,

That no warmth or comfort bring,

In the silence echoing.

 

 

The dream

 

In Daghestan, no cloud its hot sun cloaking,

A bullet in my side, I lay without

Movement or sound, my wound still fresh and

smoking

And drop by drop my Hfeblood trickling out.

 

Stretched on the sand I lay, and darkly round me

The jutting hills hung motionless. … Upon

Their tops the sun poured full; its bright rays

found me

And burnt me too-but I slept soundly on.

 

I dreamt about my homeland and a merry

And glittering feast where all was noise and glee

And where young wives, flower-garlanded, in airy

And lightsome talk indulged, and spoke of me.

 

But there was one who sat there pensive, buried

In thought remote: alone she waxed not gay.

By sorrowful dreams her youthful soul was carried,

Why, only Heaven knew, far, far away.

 

‘Twas Daghestan’s bright vale that she did dream of -

A man lay there whom she had known of old.

A black wound in his side gaped and a stream of

Blood from it came that, slowing, fast turned cold.

 

Mikhail Lermontov poetry

kempis poetry magazine

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