spring thunderstorm

I love the storm in early May,
When spring, the first thunder,
As if frolicking and playing,
Rumbles in the blue sky.

Thundering peals of the young!
Here the rain splashed, the dust flies ...
Rain pearls hung,
And the sun gilds the threads...

An agile stream runs from the mountain,
In the forest, the din of birds does not stop,
And the noise of the forest, and the noise of the mountains -
Everything echoes merrily thunders...

You say: windy Hebe,
Feeding Zeus' eagle
A thundering cup from the sky
Laughing, spilled on the ground!

I love May's first storms:
chuckling sporting spring
grumbles in mock anger;
young thunderclaps,

a spatter of rain and flying dust
and wet pearls hanging
threaded by sun-gold;
a speedy current scampers from the hills.

Such a commotion in the woods!
Noises cartwheel down the mountains.
Every sound is echoed round the sky.
You "d think capricious Hebe,

feeding the eagle of Zeus,
had raised a thunder-foaming goblet,
unable to restrain her mirth,
and tipped it on the earth.

I love a thunder - storm at the beginning of May,
when spring's first thunder,
as though play, in a frolic,
rumbles in the blue sky.

The young peals of thunder rattle.
Now it's drizzling
dust is flying, pearls are hanging,
and the sun is gilding the threads.

A swift torrent rushes down the hill,
The birds' clamour in the wood does not cease;
The clamor in the woods and the noise on the hillside
All gaily echo the thunder - claps.

You will say inconstant Hebe,
while feeding Zeus's eagle,
laughing, emptied a cup seething with thunder
from heaven to the earth

I love a thunderstorm in May
When here the first spring's early thunder,
As though a joyful part of play
Roars in the blue sky in his grandeur.

Being strong and young, it's thundering
Look, rain has started, dust is flying,
The rainy pearls have hung as strings,
The sun is gilding threads by smiling.

A stream runs quickly down the hill,
The birds of wood don't cease songs' wonders,
And whistle from wood and sound of rill
Both gaily echo to the thunders...

It's carefree Hebe, you may say,
When feeding Zeus's noble eagle,
Below her on the earth's huge tray
Has spilled a cup, it makes her giggle.

Wie lieb" ich dich, o Maigewitter,
Wenn durch den blauen Wolkenspalt
Wie scherzend unter Blitzgezitter
Der erste Lenzesdonner hallt!

Das ist ein Rollen, Knattern, Splittern!
Nun spritz der Regen, Staub fliegt auf;
Der Graser Regenperlen zittern
Und goldig flirrt die Sonne drauf.

Vom Berge schnellt der Bach hernieder,
Es singt der grünbelaubte Hain,
und Bachsturz, Hainlaub, Vogellieder,
Sie stimmen in den Donner ein...

Hat Hebe in dem Gottersaale,
Nachdem sie Jovis Aar getränkt,
Die donnerschäumend volle Schale
Mutwillig erdenwarts gesenkt?

Lubię w początku maja burzę,
Kiedy wioseny pierwszy grom,
Jakby swawoląc po lazurze,
Grzechoce w niebie huczną grą.

Odgromy mlode grzmią rozgłośnie.
Już deszczyk prysnął, kurz się wzbił,
Zawisly perly dżdżu radośnie
I słońce złoci rośny pył.

Z pagorka potok wartki bieży,
Ptaszęcy zgiełk w dąbrowie wre,
I leśny zgiełk, i poszum świeży
Wesoło wtorzą gromow grze.

I rzekłbyś, że to płocha Heba,
Dzeusowe orlę karmiąc, w ślad
Piorunopienną czarę z nieba
Wylała, śmiejąc się, na świat!

Oluju volim ranog svibnja,
proljetni kada prvi grom
k "o da urezuje se, igra,
Na nebu tutnji plavetnom.

Gromovi grme, tutnje mladi,
Prah leti, kisa lije, gle,
Sunasce niti svoje zlati,
I visi kišno biserje.

Sa gore hita potok brzi,
U šumi ne mre ptica pjev,
I graja šume, zvuci brdski -
Veselo groma prate sijev.

Zeusu orla pojila,
pa gromobujni pehar's neba,
Smijuć se, zemljom prolila.

Oluju volim ranog svibnja,
Proljetni kada prvi grom
Kao da zabavlja se, game,
Na nebu tutnji plavetnom.

Gromovi tutnje, grme mladi,
Prah leti, kisa lije se,
Sunasce svoje niti zlati,
I visi kišno biserje.

S planine hita potok brzi,
U šumi ne mre ptica pjev,
I žamor šume, zvuci brdski -
Veselo groma prate sijev.

Ti reć" ćes: vrckava to Heba,
Zeusu orla pojila,
Munjonosni je pehar s neba
Smijuć se, zemljom prolila.

(Rafaela Sejic)

I love the clear bulk,
on a black May day,
no walks, no fun,
thunder in the sky.

The grumbling of the roar of the young,
eight rainy pyrsnuў, ardor chicken,
in the sky pearls of dazhdzhava,
and the sun is a thread of silver.

From the mountains byazhyts brook vyasyoli,
do not zatsikhae hamana,
and the gray is clear, and I will make noise down the valley -
all turue perunam.

You say: Hebe's wind race
z smile, helmsmen arla,
thunderous kubak from the sky
the edge of the land was sent to the dale.

五月初的雷是可爱的：
那春季的第一声轰隆
好象一群孩子在嬉戏，
闹声滚过碧蓝的天空。

青春的雷一联串响过，
阵雨打下来，飞起灰尘，
雨点象珍珠似的悬着，
阳光把雨丝镀成了黄金。

从山间奔下湍急的小溪，
林中的小鸟叫个不停，
山林的喧哗都欢乐地
回荡着天空的隆隆雷声。

你以为这是轻浮的赫巴①
一面喂雷神的苍鹰，
一面笑着自天空洒下
满杯的沸腾的雷霆。

　　　　　　一八二八年
　　　　　　　查良铮 译

You can very easily draw in your imagination a picture of a rainy May day if you read the verse “Spring Thunderstorm” by Tyutchev Fedor Ivanovich. The poet wrote this work in 1828, when he was in Germany, and then, in 1854, corrected it. The main attention in the poem is paid to a common natural phenomenon - a thunderstorm, but the author managed to reproduce all its details so accurately and expressively that this poem is still admired by readers.

Spring was the poet's favorite season. She symbolized for him the beginning of a new life, the awakening of nature. Comparing each season with a period of human life, Tyutchev perceived spring as youth. He describes natural phenomena using human features. Tyutchev's thunder frolics and plays like a child, he calls his peals young, and the thundercloud laughs, spilling water on the ground. Spring thunder is like a young man who is taking his first steps in an adult independent life. He is also cheerful and carefree, and his life flies like a stormy stream, knowing no barriers. Despite the cheerful mood, there is a slight sadness in the poem. The poet seems to regret those times when he himself was young and carefree.

The last quatrain of the poem refers the reader to ancient Greek mythology. The poet draws an invisible line connecting the ordinary phenomenon of nature with the divine principle. From the point of view of philosophy, Tyutchev emphasizes that everything repeats itself in this world, and as the spring thunder rumbled hundreds of years ago, it will rumble in the same way hundreds of years after us. To conduct a literature lesson in the classroom, you can download here the text of Tyutchev's poem "Spring Thunderstorm" in full. You can also learn this work by heart online.

I love the storm in early May,
When spring, the first thunder,
as if frolicking and playing,
Rumbles in the blue sky.

The young peals are thundering,
Here the rain splashed, the dust flies,
Rain pearls hung,
And the sun gilds the threads.

An agile stream runs from the mountain,
In the forest, the din of birds does not stop,
And the noise of the forest and the noise of the mountains -
Everything echoes cheerfully to the thunders.

You say: windy Hebe,
Feeding Zeus' eagle
A thundering cup from the sky
Laughing, she spilled it on the ground.

Great about verses:

Poetry is like painting: one work will captivate you more if you look at it closely, and another if you move further away.

Little cutesy poems irritate the nerves more than the creak of unoiled wheels.

The most valuable thing in life and in poetry is that which has broken.

Marina Tsvetaeva

Of all the arts, poetry is most tempted to replace its own idiosyncratic beauty with stolen glitter.

Humboldt W.

Poems succeed if they are created with spiritual clarity.

The writing of poetry is closer to worship than is commonly believed.

If only you knew from what rubbish Poems grow without shame... Like a dandelion near a fence, Like burdocks and quinoa.

A. A. Akhmatova

Poetry is not in verses alone: ​​it is spilled everywhere, it is around us. Take a look at these trees, at this sky - beauty and life breathe from everywhere, and where there is beauty and life, there is poetry.

I. S. Turgenev

For many people, writing poetry is a growing pain of the mind.

G. Lichtenberg

A beautiful verse is like a bow drawn through the sonorous fibers of our being. Not our own - our thoughts make the poet sing inside us. Telling us about the woman he loves, he delightfully awakens in our souls our love and our sorrow. He is a wizard. Understanding him, we become poets like him.

Where graceful verses flow, there is no place for vainglory.

Murasaki Shikibu

I turn to Russian versification. I think that over time we will turn to blank verse. There are too few rhymes in Russian. One calls the other. The flame inevitably drags the stone behind it. Because of the feeling, art certainly peeps out. Who is not tired of love and blood, difficult and wonderful, faithful and hypocritical, and so on.

Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin

- ... Are your poems good, tell yourself?
- Monstrous! Ivan suddenly said boldly and frankly.
- Do not write anymore! the visitor asked pleadingly.
I promise and I swear! - solemnly said Ivan ...

Mikhail Afanasyevich Bulgakov. "The Master and Margarita"

We all write poetry; poets differ from the rest only in that they write them with words.

John Fowles. "The French Lieutenant's Mistress"

Every poem is a veil stretched out on the points of a few words. These words shine like stars, because of them the poem exists.

Alexander Alexandrovich Blok

The poets of antiquity, unlike modern ones, rarely wrote more than a dozen poems during their long lives. It is understandable: they were all excellent magicians and did not like to waste themselves on trifles. Therefore, behind every poetic work of those times, a whole Universe is certainly hidden, filled with miracles - often dangerous for someone who inadvertently wakes dormant lines.

Max Fry. "The Talking Dead"

To one of my clumsy hippos-poems, I attached such a heavenly tail: ...

Mayakovsky! Your poems do not warm, do not excite, do not infect!
- My poems are not a stove, not a sea and not a plague!

Vladimir Vladimirovich Mayakovsky

Poems are our inner music, clothed in words, permeated with thin strings of meanings and dreams, and therefore drive away critics. They are but miserable drinkers of poetry. What can a critic say about the depths of your soul? Don't let his vulgar groping hands in there. Let the verses seem to him an absurd lowing, a chaotic jumble of words. For us, this is a song of freedom from tedious reason, a glorious song that sounds on the snow-white slopes of our amazing soul.

Boris Krieger. "A Thousand Lives"

Poems are the thrill of the heart, the excitement of the soul and tears. And tears are nothing but pure poetry that has rejected the word.

In the history of the familiar poem, it turns out, there are little-known pages.

spring thunderstorm

I love the storm in early May,

When spring, the first thunder,

As if frolicking and playing,

Rumbles in the blue sky.

The peals of the young are thundering...

Rain pearls hung,

And the sun gilds the threads.

An agile stream runs from the mountain,

In the forest, the din of birds does not stop,

And the noise of the forest and the noise of the mountains -

Everything echoes cheerfully to the thunders.

You say: windy Hebe,

Feeding Zeus' eagle

A thundering cup from the sky

Laughing, she spilled it on the ground.

Fedor Tyutchev

Spring 1828

These lines, and especially the first stanza, are synonymous with Russian poetic classics. In the spring we just echo these lines.

I love a thunderstorm ... - Mom will say thoughtfully.

In the beginning of May! - the son will cheerfully respond.

The kid still, perhaps, has not read Tyutchev, and the lines about the thunderstorm are already mysteriously living in him.

And it is strange to learn that "Spring Thunderstorm" took on the textbook form familiar to us from childhood only a quarter of a century after it was written, in the 1854 edition.

And when first published in the magazine "Galatea" in 1829, the poem looked different. There was no second stanza at all, and the well-known first looked like this:

I love the storm in early May:

How fun spring thunder

From edge to edge

Rumbles in the blue sky!

It was in this version that "Spring Thunderstorm", written by 25-year-old Tyutchev, was familiar to A.S. Pushkin. I don’t dare to guess what Alexander Sergeyevich would say, comparing the two editions of the first stanza, but the early one is closer to me.

Yes, mastery is obvious in the later version, but in the early one - what immediacy of feeling! There, not only a thunderstorm is heard; there, behind the clouds, the rainbow is already guessed - "from edge to other edge." And if you scroll through Tyutchev's volume a couple of pages ahead, then here it is and the rainbow - in the poem "Calmness", which begins with the words "The storm has passed ..." and written, perhaps, in the same 1828:

... And the rainbow is the end of its arc

Rested against the green peaks.

In the early version of "Spring Thunderstorm" the first stanza flew so high and said so much in it that the subsequent stanzas seem "trailed", optional. And it is obvious that the last two stanzas were written when the storm had long gone beyond the horizon, and the first enthusiastic feeling from contemplating the elements had faded.

In the edition of 1854, this unevenness is smoothed out by the second stanza that suddenly appeared.

The peals of the young are thundering...

Here the rain splashed, the dust flies,

Rain pearls hung,

And the sun gilds the threads.

The stanza is brilliant in its own way, but only the first and last lines remain of the first. Gone was the enthusiastically half-childish "how merry ...", the "edges" of the earth, between which thunder was walking, disappeared. In their place came an ordinary line for a romantic poet: "As if frolicking and playing ..." Tyutchev compares thunder with a naughty child, there is nothing to complain about, but: oh, it's "as if"! If Fyodor Ivanovich and Ivan Sergeevich Turgenev, who collected his book in 1854, knew how we would get tired of this verbal virus in the 21st century (as philologists call the ill-fated “as if”), they would not have been zealous in editing the first stanza.

But you never know what to expect from your descendants.

I love the storm in early May,

When spring, the first thunder,

As if frolicking and playing,

Rumbles in the blue sky.

Thundering peals of the young!

Here the rain splashed, the dust flies ...

Rain pearls hung,

And the sun gilds the threads ...

An agile stream runs from the mountain,

In the forest, the din of birds does not stop,

And the noise of the forest, and the noise of the mountains -

Everything echoes cheerfully with thunders ...

A thundering cup from the sky

Laughing, spilled on the ground!

Other editions and variants

I love the storm in early May:

How fun spring thunder

From edge to edge

Rumbles in the blue sky!

A brook runs from the mountain,

In the forest, the din of birds does not stop;

And the voice of the birds and the spring of the mountain,

Everything echoes joyfully to the thunders!

You say: windy Hebe,

Feeding Zeus' eagle

A thundering cup from the sky

Laughing, she spilled it on the ground.

        Galatea. 1829. Part I. No. 3. S. 151.

COMMENTS:

Autograph unknown.

First post - Galatea. 1829. Part 1. No. 3. P. 151, signed “F. Tyutchev. Then - modern., 1854. T. XLIV. S. 24; Ed. 1854. S. 47; Ed. 1868. S. 53; Ed. SPb., 1886. S. 6; Ed. 1900. S. 50.

Printed by Ed. SPb., 1886. See "Other editions and variants". S. 230.

In the first edition, the poem consisted of three stanzas (“I love a thunderstorm ...”, “He runs from the mountain ...”, “You say ...”); only the last stanza remained unchanged, the other two in the first edition had a slightly different look: the “fun” of the May thunderstorm was already announced in the second line (“How fun is the spring thunder”) and then there was a spatial definition of the phenomenon, which is generally very characteristic of Tyutchev (“ From end to end"); and although another version appeared in later lifetime editions, the image itself and its verbal expression are repeated: in the first passage from Faust (“And the storms howl incessantly / And sweep the earth from end to end”), in verse. “From land to land, from city to city…”. In the second stanza, the figurative components were more specific than in the later redaction; it was about the “brook”, “the key of the mountain”, “the voice of the birds”, in further editions appeared “the agile stream”, “the noise of the forest”, “the noise of the mountain”. The generalized images more corresponded to the author's detachedly lofty position, who turned his gaze primarily to the sky, felt the divine-mythological basis of what was happening and, as it were, was not inclined to look at particulars - "stream", "birds".

Text starting from modern. 1854 is not lexically distinguished, it took on the form in which "Spring Thunderstorm" is printed in the 20th century. However, syntactically it stands out Ed. SPb., 1886, signs appeared in it that are characteristic of Tyutchev's autographs and correspond to the enthusiastic-love emotional tone of the work (“I love a thunderstorm ...”): an exclamation mark at the end of the 5th line and at the end of the poem, dots at the end of the 6th, 8th and 12th lines which was not available in previous editions. The texts of this edition were prepared by A.N. Maikov. Evaluating the publication as the closest to Tyutchev's manner (it is possible that Maikov could have had an autograph at his disposal), he was given preference in this publication.

Dated 1828 on the basis of a censored mark in Galatea: "January 16th day, 1829"; the revision of the first version, apparently, was made in the early 1850s.

AT Fatherland zap. (p. 63–64) reviewer Ed. 1854, reprinting the entire poem and highlighting the last stanza in italics, admired: “What an incomparable artist! This exclamation involuntarily breaks out from the reader, re-reading for the tenth time this small work of the most perfect style. And we will repeat after him that rarely, in a few verses, it is possible to combine so much poetic beauty. Most captivating in the picture, of course, is the last image of the most elegant taste and sustained in every feature. Such images rarely come across in the literature. But, admiring the artistic ending of the poetic image, one should not lose sight of its whole image: it is also full of charm, it also does not have a single false feature, and, moreover, it is all, from beginning to end, breathes such a bright feeling that together with him, it’s as if you are reliving the best moments of life again. ”

But the critic Pantheon(p. 6) among the failures of Tyutchev's poems he named the image of a "loud-boiling goblet." I.S. Aksakov ( biogr. S. 99) singled out the verse. "Spring Thunderstorm", reprinted it in full, accompanied by the statement: "Let's conclude this department of Tyutchev's poetry with one of his youngest poems<…>This is how young Hebe, laughing at the top, is seen, and all around is a wet brilliance, the fun of nature and all this May, thunderous fun. Aksakov's opinion received a philosophical justification in the work of V.S. Solovyov; he offered a philosophical and aesthetic interpretation of the poem. Having connected beauty in nature with the phenomena of light, Solovyov considered its calm and mobile expression. The philosopher gave a broad definition of life as a game, the free movement of private forces and positions in the individual as a whole, and saw two main shades in the movement of living elemental forces in nature - "free play and formidable struggle." He saw the first in Tyutchev's poem about a thunderstorm "at the beginning of May", quoting the poem almost completely (see. Solovyov. The beauty. pp. 49–50).