Who is Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet

Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet (Russian: Афана́сий Афана́сьевич Фет, IPA: [ɐfɐˈnasʲɪj ɐfɐˈnasʲjɪvʲɪtɕ ˈfʲɛt] (listen)), later known as Shenshin (Russian: Шенши́н, IPA: [ʂɨnˈʂɨn] (listen)); 5 December [O.S. 23 November] 1820 – 3 December [O.S. 21 November] 1892), was a r...
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Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet Poems

  • I Have Come To You Delighted
    I have come to you, delighted,
    To tell you that sun has risen,
    That its light has warmly started
    To fulfil on leaves its dancing; ...
  • My Face Turned Upwards To The Sky
    My face turned upwards to the sky
    One summer night I lay upon some hay
    A lively close-knit starry chorus
    Was flickering all around. ...
  • Nightingales, A Sigh, A Whisper
    Nightingales, a sigh, a whisper
    In a shady nook
    And the lullaby in silver
    Of a lazy brook. ...
  • Never
    I wake. Yes, it's a coffin lid.-With effort
    I reach my hands out and I call
    For help. Yes, I recall the tortures
    Of dying.-Yes, this is no dream!- ...
  • With One Firm Thrust
    With one firm thrust to force the boat of living
    From off the sands, and, by a wave tossed high,
    Be toward a new life borne, a new beginning,
    To feel the wind from scented shores sweep nigh, ...
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Top 10 most used topics by Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet

Heart 7 Night 5 Dream 5 Breath 4 Face 4 Sky 4 Earth 4 Soul 3 Light 3 Life 3

Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet Quotes

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Comments about Afanasy Afanasyevich Fet

  • Obituary_bot: afanasy fet, 72 (russian author and poet) 1820—1892 afanasy afanasyevich fet), later known as shenshin; 5 december  1820 – 3 december  1892), was a renowned russian poet regarded as the finest master of lyric verse in russian literature rip
  • Michelleassor: quote from the poem, 'what grief the alley's end', by afanasy afanasyevich fet (regarded as the greatest russian lyric poet). what grief! the alley's end is lost in snow again today, and once again, the silver snakes are crawling through the snow.
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Poem of the day

Carl Sandburg Poem
 by Carl Sandburg

TWO Swede families live downstairs and an Irish policeman upstairs, and an old soldier, Uncle Joe.
Two Swede boys go upstairs and see Joe. His wife is dead, his only son is dead, and his two daughters in Missouri and Texas don't want him around.
The boys and Uncle Joe crack walnuts with a hammer on the bottom of a flatiron while the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
Joe tells the Swede boys all about Chickamauga and Chattanooga, how the Union soldiers crept in rain somewhere a dark night and ran forward and killed many Rebels, took flags, held a hill, and won a victory told about in the histories in school.
Joe takes a piece of carpenter's chalk, draws lines on the floor and piles stove wood to show where six regiments were slaughtered climbing a slope.
'Here they went' and 'Here they went,' says Joe, and the January wind howls and the zero air weaves laces on the window glass.
The two Swede boys go downstairs with a big blur of guns, men, and hills in their heads. They eat herring and potatoes and tell the family war is a wonder and soldiers are a wonder.
One breaks out with a cry at supper: I wish we had a war now and I could be a soldier.

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