ŷ������

“Man's life, and all the troubles in it
Are but brief sorrow, transient care.
Some end that life and some begin it.”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“My thoughts have long been stirred and racked
by just one name of passing sweetness:
my days in paradise have lacked
just your perfection for completeness”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“What, without you is life eternal?
what are my boundless realms infernal?
Just empty words, a loud discord,
a vast cathedral - with no lord!”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“Love's swooning and love's agitation-
for the first time the Demon now
experienced them; in shock and shiver
he thinks of fleeing - but no quiver
stirs in his wing! from his dimmed brow
a heavy teardrop, a slow river...
what a marvel! till today, quite near
that cell, there stands in wondrous fashion
a stone scorched by a tear of passion,
burnt through by an inhuman tear!...”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“And this time
with ardent lips so lightly grazing
he kissed her trembling mouth, and then
answered her pleas, in language dazing
with sweet temptation; once again
those mighty eyes were fixed and gazing
deep into hers. He set her blazing.
He gleamed above her like a spark
or like a knife that finds its mark.”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“Не вздох любви �� могильный стон, Как эхо, из груди разбитой Протяжно вышел наконец; И сердце, яростью облито, Отяжелело, как свинец. Его рука остановилась На воздухе. Сведенный перст Оледенел. Хоть взор отверзт, В нем ничего не отразилось, Кроме презренья. Но к кому? Что показалося ему?”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Демон

“On her proud soul, I tell you, I have affixed my seal above; so from your cloister I repel you, this is my kingdom, here I love!”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“Nay, what is human love?—a stirring
Of youthful blood to quicker flow,
But love grows chiller, as recurring
Days, years and decades, come and go.”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon

“A stranger, mute, through mists that curled,
in beauty clad not of this world,
came to her, leaned above her pillow;
and in his glance was such a billow,
of love and grief, that you'd infer
all his compassion was for her.”
― Mikhail Lermontov, Demon