Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern . ay, with her own direction, and leaves man the choice ofjoining her after his death in a nirvanic fusion with impersonal cos-mos. The most lyric of lyric poets is Fet (1820-1893): pure feeling,impalpable, immaterial, like effect without cause; imagine a picturewithout canvas, a sound without the chord which produces it. theperfume of a flower without the flower itself, — so free of matter ishis poetry. He is the poet of indefinite emotions, unseizable shadow-ings; where others enter into silence, there he begins to talk; with awonder
Library of the world's best literature, ancient and modern . ay, with her own direction, and leaves man the choice ofjoining her after his death in a nirvanic fusion with impersonal cos-mos. The most lyric of lyric poets is Fet (1820-1893): pure feeling,impalpable, immaterial, like effect without cause; imagine a picturewithout canvas, a sound without the chord which produces it. theperfume of a flower without the flower itself, — so free of matter ishis poetry. He is the poet of indefinite emotions, unseizable shadow-ings; where others enter into silence, there he begins to talk; with awonderful subtlety, and at the same time a great audacity of expres-sion, he becomes the singer of lyrical twilight, of fugitive impressions,fading memories, vanishing sounds. For the usual chords of a poets I2cgo RUSSIAN LYRIC POETRY lyre he substituted the palpitating rays of the moonlight and therainbow. Such is in brief lines the evolution of Russian lyricism to the pres-ent moment, and such is in concise formulas the character of itschief c THE BLACK SHAWL(Aleksandr Sergyevich Poushkin: 1799-1837) ike a madman I gaze on a raven-black shawl: Remorse, fear, and anguish,— this heart knows them all. When believing and fond, in the springtime of youth,I loved a Greek maiden with tenderest truth. That fair one caressed me — my life! oh, twas bright;But it set, that fair day, in a hurricane night. One day I had bidden young guests, a gay crew,When sudden there knocked at my gate a vile Jew. wWith guests thou art feasting,B he whisperingly said,<cAnd she hath betrayed thee — thy young Grecian maid.* I cursed him and gave,him good guerdon of gold,And called me a slave that was trusty and bold. «Ho! my charger — my charger! w — We mount, we depart,And soft pity whispered in vain at my heart. On the Greek maidens threshold in frenzy I stood: I was faint, and the sun seemed as darkened with blood. By the maidens low window I listen, and thereI beheld an Arm
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