Ward, Charles A. Moscow and Leningrad: A Topographical Guide to Russian Cultural History Vol. 2 Writers, Painters, Musicians and Their Gathering Places K. G. Saur Verlag, Munchen, 1992, Hard Cover, , , ISBN 2147483647 , Very Good
ix, 309 pp. index of names, index of topics, maps. Top edge soiled. Vol. 2 only. The first volume deals with architecture, the buildings and their builders; Vol. 2 with the Cultural History. A seemingly exhaustive, fascinating perigrinage. Bookstores Cemeteries, Churches Hospitals Hotels, Journals Museums, Rental Halls, Restaurants, Salons, Circles, Jours fixes, Schools, Theaters and their habituees. 'One notable feature of cultural life in Msocw and Petersburg in the first half of the nineteenth century was the gathering of literary and artistic leaders at salons, circles, and jours fixes. One of the most famous was that of Vladimir Fedorovich Odoevsky, a musician, writer, and music critic. . . . He knew almost everyone in the arts in the capital--writers, poets, composers, performers, men of learning. . . . The Petersburg salon met on Saturdays and was attended by most of the leading names in Russian cultural life--writers Alexander Griboedov, Alexander Pushkin, Nikolay Gogol, Evgeny Baratynsky, Peter Vyazemsky, Mikhail Lermontov, Lev Tolstoy, Fedor Dostoevsky, Dmitry Grigorovich, Ivan Turgenev, Vissarion Belinsky, Vladimir Sollogub, Evdokia Rostopchina, Peter Pletnev, Andrey Kraevsky, Nikolay Nekrasov, and Ivan Panaev; musicians Mikhael Vielgorsky, Mikhail Glinka, Alexander Dargomyzhsky, and Alexander Serov.'
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Virtual Walking Tours of Manhattan Streets. A unique and rewarding hyperwalk through Manhattan.
SONG OF NATURE
Mine are the night and morning,
The pits of air, the gull of space,
The sportive sun, the gibbous moon,
The innumerable days.
I hide in the solar glory,
I am dumb in the pealing song,
I rest on the pitch of the torrent,
In slumber I am strong.
No numbers have counted my tallies,
No tribes my house can fill,
I sit by the shining Fount of Life
And pour the deluge still;
And ever by delicate powers
Gathering along the centuries
From race on race the rarest flowers,
My wreath shall nothing miss.
And many a thousand summers
My gardens ripened well,
And light from meliorating stars
With firmer glory fell.
I wrote the past in characters
Of rock and fire the scroll,
The building in the coral sea,
The planting of the coal.
And thefts from satellites and rings
And broken stars I drew,
And out of spent and aged things
I formed the world anew;
What time the gods kept carnival,
Tricked out in star and flower,
And in cramp elf and saurian forms
They swathed their too much power.
Time and Thought were my surveyors,
They laid their courses well,
They boiled the sea, and piled the layers
Of granite, marl and shell.
But he, the man-child glorious, -
Where tarries he the while?
The rainbow shines his harbinger,
The sunset gleams his smile.
My boreal lights leap upward,
Forthright my planets roll,
And still the man-child is not born,
The summit of the whole.
Must time and tide forever run?
Will never my winds go sleep in the west?
Will never my wheels which whirl the sun
And satellites have rest?
Too much of donning and doffing,
Too slow the rainbow fades,
I weary of my robe of snow,
My leaves and my cascades;
I tire of globes and races,
Too long the game is played;
What without him is summer's pomp,
Or winter's frozen shade?
I travail in pain for him,
My creatures travail and wait;
His couriers come by squadrons,
He comes not to the gate.
Twice I have moulded an image,
And thrice outstretched my hand,
Made one of day and one of night
And one of the salt sea-sand.
One in a Judaean manger,
And one by Avon stream,
One over against the mouths of Nile,
And one in the Academe.
I moulded kings and saviors,
And bards o"er kings to rule; -
But fell the starry influence short,
The cup was never full.
Yet whirl the glowing wheels once more,
And mix the bowl again;
Seethe, Fate! the ancient elements,
Heat, cold, wet, dry, and peace, and pain.
Let war and trade and creeds and song
Blend, ripen race on race,
The sunburnt world a man shall breed
Of all the zones and countless days.
No ray is dimmed, no atom worn,
My oldest force is good as new,
And the fresh rose on yonder thorn
Gives back the bending heavens in dew.