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ÀÌ ¸§Puxley
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¿ª»ç°¡ÀÎ W. Bruce LincolnÀÇ 'The Romanovs ; Autocrats of All the Russias'Áß¿¡ ÀοëµÇ¾îÀÖ´Â Aleksandr Pushkin°ú Aleksandr BlokÀÇ ½ÃÀÔ´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ µÎ½Ã´Â °¢°¢ 1817³â°ú 1917³âÀÇ ·¯½Ã¾Æ¼öµµÀÎ St. PetersburgÀÇ »óȲÀ» ¹¦»çÇϰí ÀÖ½À´Ï´Ù. ÀÌ µÎ ½ÃÀÇ ºñ±³¸¦ ÅëÇØ 100³âµ¿¾È ·¯½Ã¾Æ°¡ ¾ó¸¶³ª Å« º¯È­¸¦ °Þ¾ú´ÂÁö¸¦ ÁüÀÛÇØº¼ ¼ö ÀÖÀ» °ÍÀÔ´Ï´Ù.

'The Bronze Horseman' - Aleksandr Pushkin

I love thy ruthless winter, lowering
With bitter frost and windless air;
The sledges along Neva scouring;
Girl's cheeks - no rose so bright and fair!
The flash and noise of balls, the chatter;
The batchelor's hour of feasting, too;
The cups that foam and hiss and spatter,
The punch that in the bowl burns blue.
I love the warlike animation
On playing-fields of Mars; to see
The troops of foot and horse in station,
And their superb monotony;
Their odered, undulating muster;
Flags brazen, tattered on the glorious day;
Those brazen helmets in their lustre
Shot through and riddled in the fray.

'The Twelve' - Aleksandr Blok

Black night,
White snow.
The wind, the wind!
It stuns you like a blow.
The wind, the wind!
Across the world, it gallops to and fro.

The wind is weaving
The white snow.
There is ice below.
Stumbling and tumbling,
Folk slip and fall.
God pity all!

From house to house
A rope is flung.
On it the sagging sign is hung
"All power to the Constituent Assembly!"
A bent old woman,
Tearful, trembly,
Stares at the canvas in dispair.

Her blear eyes see
How many fine foot-wraps could be
Cut from the linen wasted there,
While the children's feet go bare.


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