Duke shfaqur rezultatin 1 deri 4 prej 4
  1. #1
    Super Moderatore Maska e shigjeta
    183 falenderime nė 159 postime

    Pjese nga tragjedia "Hamleti" - Enip


    To be, or not to be: that is the question:
    Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
    The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
    Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
    And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
    No more; and by a sleep to say we end
    The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
    That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
    Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
    To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
    For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
    When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
    Must give us pause: there's the respect
    That makes calamity of so long life;
    For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
    The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
    The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
    The insolence of office and the spurns
    That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
    When he himself might his quietus make
    With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
    To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
    But that the dread of something after death,
    The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
    No traveller returns, puzzles the will
    And makes us rather bear those ills we have
    Than fly to others that we know not of?
    Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
    And thus the native hue of resolution
    Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
    And enterprises of great pith and moment
    With this regard their currents turn awry,
    And lose the name of action.--Soft you now!
    The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
    Be all my sins remember'd.

  2. #2
    Administratore Maska e Fiori
    113 falenderime nė 103 postime


    ...Te rrosh a te mos rrosh - kjo eshte ceshtja,
    M'e lart eshte valle te durosh,
    Hobe shigjetash fati te terbuar
    A te perballosh nje det te turbullt helmesh
    Me arm' e fund t'u japesh. Te vdec - te flesh
    Jo me ! - dhe me nje gjume te mbarosh
    Cdo zemerderdhje, mijra tronditje
    Qe trupi prej natyres trashegon
    Ja nje qellim qe duhet desheruar
    Me gjithe shpirt - Te vdec - te flesh, te flesh ?
    E ndoshta te enderrosh ! Ah ! Ketu ngec ;
    Se c'enderra shohim n'ate gjume - vdekje
    Pasi na shkundet kjo peshtjelle e mortme
    Kjo frike na qendron, ja arsyeja
    Qe aq e zgjat nje jete me mjerime :
    Se kush duron perbuzjen dhe kamxhikun' e botes
    Zullumn' e shtypesit, perdhunen e krenarit
    Lengimin e dashurise se paperfillur
    Vonimin e ligjes gojeshthurjen e zyrtarit
    Dhe shkelmet, qe cdo vlere zemergjere
    Nga te pavlershmit merr, kur mund ta laje
    Hesapin fare me nje cope, thike ?
    Kush valle barra mban e kush dersin
    Renkon nene nje jete te merzitur
    Po vetem tmerr i asaj dic pas vdekjes
    Vendit te pazbuluar nga s'na kthehet
    Kurr' udhetari na trullos vullnetin
    Dhe vuajme te ligat qe po kemi
    Se sa te hidhemi n'ato qe s'dime
    Keshtu dhe ngjyr' e gjall e rezolutes
    semuret, verdhet nga hij e mendimit
    Dhe plane te medha e rendesore
    Ndalen, percajne rrjedhjen, dhe humbasin
    Emrin e veprimit. Hesht tani !
    E bukura Ofeli ! Engjell ne lutjet !
    Mekatet mi kujto te gjitha ....

  3. #3
    i/e regjistruar Maska e Brari
    119 falenderime nė 109 postime


    Marre nga interneti:
    M.Y. Lermontov
    After Alexander Pushkin had been killed in a duel the newspapers wrote: "The sun of Russian poetry has set." And suddenly a poem spread like wildfire throughout Russia:

    "The poet is no more! He's fallen
    A slave to honour-
    Lead in his chest, for vengeance calling,
    The proud head bowed at last - he died!"
    The poem ended with lines accusing those who had bounded Pushkin to his death - the tsar and the Russian nobility :
    "Nor all your black blood serve to wash away
    The poet's righteous blood."
    The name of the author - Mikhail Lermontov - very little known up till then, became famous overnight.
    Mikhail Lermontov lived less than 27 years, but he had a tremendous influence on Russian literature. The poet's creative work, reflecting a new stage in the development of Russian social consciousness, expressed his thoughts about the destiny of an entire generation, the moral atmosphere of society and the tragic solitude of a freedom-loving man. Lermontov, besides being an angry exposer of the aristocracy, was an active opponent of the landed nobility and feudal system. For the first time in Russian poetry the main hero of his poem "Borodino" is a simple man, a soldier. Leo Tolstoi used to say in all seriousness that "Borodino" was the seed from which his novel "War and Peace" sprouted.
    The novel "A Hero of Our Time," full of deep moral meaning and psychological meditation, became a triumph of Lermontov's realism. Lermontov, as he himself admitted, depicted in the novel the typical figure of his contemporary by presenting a "portrait drawn from the vices of our entire generation in all their abandon."
    Lermontov's work, addressed to the future and permeated with a dream about the free man, sowed the seeds for a new blossoming of Russian literature. It was reflected in the national patriotic lyricism of Nekrasov and the prose of Turgenyev and Tolstoi. Chernyshevsky and Dobrolyubov revered him and Blok and Mayakovsky continued his poetic traditions...
    Mikhail Lermontov was born in Moscow in 1814. He spent his childhood in the village of Tarkhany, Penza Region, at the estate of his grandmother, Y. Arsenyeva. It is here that his character began to form and here he wrote his first poems.
    In the village of Lermontovo there is the small manor house in which Lermontov Iived . It was buiIt at the beginning of the I 9th century and now houses a museum . An old piano stands silent in the drawing-room where family portraits in heavy frames stare broodingly from the walls. If you stop to listen it may seem to you that you hear the low, rather muffled voice of Maria Lermontova, and that any moment now a 2-year-old boy in a light suit will come rushing in to cuddle against his mother's knees, while listening to her fing...
    Natow painted stairs lead up to tile second floor where two small rooms are located. On a desk near the balcony door stands a porcelain inkpot-an owl with a chipped-off ear. Next to it is a rough draft of the fourth act of the drama "Two Brothers." Let us try to decipher some of the lines that had been crossed out: "A large derelict room . A fireplace faIling to pieces. A corridor can be seen on the left... And a staircase. On the right are two steps, in the middle of the corridor a glass door leading onto a balcony. Moonlight."
    If you look around you will realize that this is an exact description of the room in which you are in now. True, there is a neat tile stove where the fireplace once was. But you can see the corridor, two steps, and the balcony.
    It is from this window that Lermontov looked at the snowbound countryside and listened to the whistling wind in the winter of 1836. He would get up from behind his desk, look into the hot flames roaring in the fireplace and smoke his stump pipe, which is now lying on his desk.

    "Alone I sit at dead of night,
    A burnt-out candle lends me light.
    My pen upon a notebook traces
    The loveliest of girlish faces."
    He probably recalled in those moments the beloved image of dark-skinned and slender Varenka Lopukhina, whom he immortalized in verse.
    From the balcony one can see the glittering surface of a large pond through the rustling branches. Down below stands a tall elm with a swing for little Mikhail suspended from one of its branches, further on there is a lonely pine. Perhaps it was this pine that Lermontov recalls in one of his poems:

    "Far off in the north in a wilderness lonely
    A pine on a pinnacle steep
    Stands covered with snow like a silvery mantle,
    Rocking itself to sleep."
    Lermontov's work is infused with a deep love for his Homeland and a feeling of loneliness. Yes, he felt himself alone in feudal Russia. But at the same time he believed indefatigably in his people, believed that only a purifying storm could change their destiny.
    In the centre of Tarkhany, a small white chapel stands next to a church. A tall oak has spread its branches over its roof. It was here that Mikhail Lermontov was interred in the Arsenyev's family vauIt. The poet was killed in the summer of 1841 in a duel in the city of Pyatigorsk, where the tsar had exiled him for his freedom-loving poemp. Candles shed a soft, steady light and across the land that Mikhail Lermontov loved so much the Miloraika River flows gaily. Warm summer rains fall and there is a pleasant scent of apples and honey in the air. People come here to meet with Lermontov,

  4. #4
    in bocca al lupo Maska e Leila
    5 falenderime nė 5 postime
    Pse s'me behet te besoj qe Ophelia u cmend?
    Ajo ka qene me ne rregull nga te gjithe te tjeret.
    trendafila manushaqe
    ne dyshek te zoterise tate
    me dhe besen e me ke
    dhe shega me s'me nxe

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