Photographer's Note

Seeing this evening view of the rocks opposite Swallow's Nest I was recalling the poem Winter evening by Pushkin.
In Gurzuf near Yalta Aleksandr Pushkin lived the three “happiest weeks” of his life.

Буря мглою небо кроет,
Вихри снежные крутя;
То, как зверь она завоет,
То заплачет как дитя,
То по кровле обветшалой
Вдруг соломой зашумит,
То, как путник запоздалый,
К нам в окошко постучит.
Наша ветхая лачужка
И печальна и темна.
Что же ты, моя старушка,
Приумолкла у окна?
Или бури завыванием
Ты мой друг утомлена,
Или дремлешь под жужжанием
Своего веретена?

This poem by Alexandr Pushkin in English translation:
Storm has set the heavens scowling,
Whirling gusty blizzards wild,
Now they are like beasts a-growling,
Now a-wailing like a child;
Now along the brittle thatches
They will scud with rustling sound,
Now against the window latches
Like belated wanderers pound.
Our frail hut is glum and sullen,
Dim with twilight and with care.
Why, dear granny, have you fallen
Silent by the window there?
Has the gale's insistent prodding
Made your drowsing senses numb,
Are you lulled to gentle nodding
By the whirling spindle's hum?

Guenther, vasilpro, yeln, Kielia, s_lush, mkamionka, Angshu, ade71 has marked this note useful

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Additional Photos by Malgorzata Kopczynska (emka) Gold Star Critiquer/Gold Star Workshop Editor/Gold Note Writer [C: 13046 W: 139 N: 33748] (153888)
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