Sunday, April 22, 2007

Sunday Akhmatova Blogging


Pushkin


A swarthy youth rambled
by the forsaken lakeshore.
A centry passes, and we hear
his crackle on the path.

Pine needles, thick, thorny,
bury the stumps of trees . . .
Here lay his tricorn hat,
his dog-eared verses by Parny.

~1911
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1 comment:

  1. Anonymous5:37 PM

    Did you know that Pushkin was black? He was the descendent of a black man who I believe was brought to Russia as the slave of someone else - not a Russian.

    ReplyDelete