Alexey Nikolaevich Pleshcheyev is a poet known for his heartfelt and melodic poems celebrating nature, love, and quiet melancholy. His lyrics, created in the mid-19th century, are imbued with sincerity and subtle emotion, making his works relevant today. Pleshcheyev was able to see beauty in simple things, conveying it to the reader through images of the Russian village, pensive landscapes, and personal experiences. In this collection, we present the poet's finest poems, reflecting his unique style and profound understanding of the human soul.<\/p>\n
\nMy quiet village... Your vast spaces are familiar to me. Far from the noise and the mortal, the soul finds support here. Here the air is pure, and the rivers are smooth, and the groves whisper in the twilight. Here thoughts are bright and sweet, and the heart beats without looking back.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nEvening Song<\/h2>\n
\nThe song of the day's heat has died down, and the shadows have long fallen. The fields are cool and peaceful, and the stars have blossomed in the sky. The cricket begins its tune, and the wind whispers something in the field. In my soul, as if alive, the quiet moan of memories.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nAutumn<\/h2>\n
\nThe leaves in the garden are withering, and the sky is gloomy with melancholy. Nature sleeps in a silent delirium, bidding farewell to the summer's play. But in this sadness there is its own beauty, in the farewell gleam of passing days. And autumn, like turquoise, weaves sadness into the pattern of branches.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nIn the fields<\/h2>\n
\nIn the boundless fields, under the moon, I wander alone, pensive. And my heart is filled with silence, And thoughts, like smoke, fleeting. Here it smells of grass and dew, And the whisper of the wind in the ears of grain is heard. Here is peace, tranquility, and another world, Far from vanity and anger.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nWinter evening<\/h2>\n
\nThe snow swirls and howls outside the window, And the wind whistles in the chimneys. It's warm in the hut, and my heart groans About days gone by, about spring days. Torches burn, shadows dance, And thoughts swarm in my head. About something sad, about something passionate, Memories hide in my soul.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nTo the native land<\/h2>\n
\nHow sweet it is to remember the Russian fields, the vast expanses! The quiet murmur, the grace that I came to know and appreciate in these lands. Here, every hill and every meadow is dear, close, and familiar to me. Here, I hear my own familiar sound, and feel at home.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nParting<\/h2>\n
\nThe day fades, and the light goes out, And my heart is filled with longing. Separation is a bitter, heavy delirium, And the world around me has become alien. I remember a look, I remember a speech, I remember a gentle, sweet voice. And in this memory, as in a shoulder, Hope glimmers that we will be together.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nSpring flowers<\/h2>\n
\nThe spring flowers awakened timidly under the rays, innocent. Their petals seemed to cry for a beauty so fleeting. But in this fragility lies all life, a striving for light and warmth. Their scent, like the heights, reminds the heart of spring.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nOld Garden<\/h2>\n
\nIn the old garden, where the shadows are deep, the spirits of years past wander. Here they remember whispers and dreams, the joy of meetings and the bitterness of sorrows. Trees, old as elders, preserve the silence of centuries. Their roots are rooted in the earth like kings, their crowns are filled with dreams and words.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nForgotten Melody<\/h2>\n
\nA forgotten tune resounds in my soul, Like an echo of long-gone, bright days. It's full of sadness and love, And whispers of a bygone spring. I can't catch it, It slips away like smoke. But in my heart I will keep, A quiet hymn of memories.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nTwilight<\/h2>\n
\nTwilight descends upon the world, And long shadows fall. In my soul, as if at a feast, Memories laugh. The birds fall silent in the silence, And the stars in the sky light up. And I am alone, in the evening gloom, Reflecting on something bright.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nBy the river<\/h2>\n
\nBy a quiet river, in the shade of its branches, I sit alone, in tender thought. And I listen to the splash of the waves, like the song of the fields, And feel peace, like a gift from heaven. The water flows, carrying away sorrow, And reflects the sky in its surface. Here time stands still, as if in the distance, And the heart is filled with joy.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nFirst snow<\/h2>\n
\nThe first snow has fallen to the ground, and everything around is transformed. In the quiet silence, crowned with white, nature seems enchanted. It falls like light fluff, and covers everything around. And in this silence, as if in a spirit, a sound is born in my soul.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nHomeland<\/h2>\n
\nHow dear to me is my native land, with its fields, forests, and rivers! Here my soul was born, here life was given, and here I am happy, full of feelings. Here it smells of bread, honey, and grass, here I can hear the conversations of loved ones. Here is peace and quiet, here is my home, and here I feel alive.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n\nStarry Night<\/h2>\n
\nIn the starry sky, in the silence of the night, thoughts wander like birds. And the heart is filled with unearthly melancholy, and I want to dream and believe in miracles. The stars twinkle like lights, and illuminate the path in the distance. And I, alone, in the silence of the night, look at the sky and pray to fate.\n <\/pre>\n<\/p><\/div>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"Alexey Nikolaevich Pleshcheyev is a poet known for his heartfelt and melodic poems celebrating nature, love, and quiet sadness. His lyrics, which appeared<\/p>","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[71],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-323","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-stihi"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/323","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=323"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/323\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":174887,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/323\/revisions\/174887"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=323"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=323"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/bukvaved.top\/en\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=323"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}