Here Pushkin's endless exile has begun,
And Lermontov's exile turned out fatal,
The mountain grass has a smell so sweet and gentle,
And only once I managed to discern,
By the lake under the dense shade of a chinara,
In the early evening and ferocious trice
The glare of insatiable dark eyes
Of the immortal lover of Tamara.
Here Pushkin-s Endless Exile Has Begun
Anna Akhmatova
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Poem topics: dark, evening, gentle, grass, sweet, shade, smell, endless, mountain, early, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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