It’s almost midnight. I am sitting here at my window, watching the snowflakes falling. Whenever I see snow, I remember the holidays I used to spend with my grandparents when I was a child. I remember their neighbors had a beautiful dog and I would always stop at their gate and stroke him. I longed for a puppy of my own.
On my eleventh birthday, we were at my grandparents’ house. I woke up early and looked out of my window. It was snowing. I got dressed quickly and ran downstairs. I put on my coat and ran outside. While I was playing in the snow, I heard a strange noise. Suddenly, a little puppy ran out from behind the tree and jumped into my arms. “He’s for you, Danny,” my grandmother called. “Happy birthday!” I was so happy.
A. S. Pushkin is the greatest Russian poet. But I hope no one is challenging the view that he occupies an outstanding place in Russian literature and culture.
Every summer in June, thousands of people visit the Pskov land. They come here to the village of Mikhailovskoye to the wonderful festival of poetry, to see the places where he lived and worked.
Pushkin is always alive for us, he is the man we all know and love, the greatest of poets. Generations come and go, but Pushkin still remains. We are all grateful to Pushkin for each line of his works. Pushkin is not only a great poet for us. He is the perfect man combining brilliant talent with civil courage. His name is associated with our love for the Motherland, and the best in our life.
Hundreds of new concepts, hundreds of new words have appeared in the language in the years that have passed since his death, but not a single word of his poetry has become obsolete. Everything written by Pushkin continues to live. It has not become something of the past, it does not need any corrections and hardly needs commentary. His feelings and his views still correspond to our own feelings and views.
We admire the great world of Pushkin's poetry as a whole, each of us finding some special lines for ourselves, lines showing his sympathy and respect for his people. The reader cannot imagine his inner world without him.
It’s almost midnight. I am sitting here at my window, watching the snowflakes falling. Whenever I see snow, I remember the holidays I used to spend with my grandparents when I was a child. I remember their neighbors had a beautiful dog and I would always stop at their gate and stroke him. I longed for a puppy of my own.
On my eleventh birthday, we were at my grandparents’ house. I woke up early and looked out of my window. It was snowing. I got dressed quickly and ran downstairs. I put on my coat and ran outside. While I was playing in the snow, I heard a strange noise. Suddenly, a little puppy ran out from behind the tree and jumped into my arms. “He’s for you, Danny,” my grandmother called. “Happy birthday!” I was so happy.