The text of Pushkin’s poem “The sky was already breathing in autumn” is included in chapter 4 of the novel “Eugene Onegin” and is included in the literature program for 2nd grade schoolchildren. The poem was written in the 30s, a period of the poet’s fruitful activity, which went down in the history of his work as the “Boldino autumn.” Autumn nature had a surprisingly beneficial effect on Pushkin, his state of mind, and gave a huge surge of creative strength and inspiration.
A landscape sketch immerses you in late autumn. A village on the eve of winter, when it is already November, the trees have shed their leaves, the peasants have finished their field work summer jobs, and the girls, singing, sat down at the spinning wheels. In each line of the poem, laconically and simply, but at the same time, very succinctly, the poet creates an image of his favorite time of year. For this purpose, special, Pushkin words were selected, each of which gives rise to its own associations. The short, archaic word “canopy,” which for the poet means the fallen leaves of trees, carries its own imagery: with bare branches, the forest has not lost its mystery, nature has only frozen before moving on to another season. Light noise, autumn sounds and clear cool air, which the autumn sky breathed in plenty, days becoming shorter, a caravan of geese flying screaming to the southern regions - these descriptions of nature also convey a person’s state of mind. Despite the fact that the withered nature has already plunged into long sleep, the intonation of the verse is filled with the expectation of a joyful renewal. And the state of alertness, the slight noise of trees under the pressure of the cold November wind, frozen and deserted fields - everything foreshadows the imminent arrival of winter - another season no less beloved by the poet.
The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she stripped herself,
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.
Autumn is golden...
It can be very different. For some, autumn is a beautiful, golden-haired artist who paints everything around with her magical colors; for others, autumn is a dull time, with drizzling rains, sad, dreary. For many, autumn is an opportunity to go into the forest, rustle the leaves, and harvest vegetables and fruits.
Autumn is very different. The days are getting shorter so quickly that you begin to absorb more light and colors, because there is a long and Cold winter. I want to enjoy the last beautiful days.
Walking in the park, in the forest, watching from the window as raindrops flow from the glass, we often recall the beautiful lines of poems about autumn by our classics. Poets sang of autumn, the beauty of nature, the gold of foliage, the coolness autumn days. beautiful, sometimes sad, convey the mood of the poets. Pushkin, Nekrasov, Yesenin, in their poems about autumn, conveyed their attitude to this time of year so talentedly that when reading certain lines, you imagine the whole picture.
Children learn classic poems about autumn at school. So my granddaughter read, learned by heart the poems of Pushkin, Fet, Belmont, and I remembered all these wonderful lines with her.
The poetry of the “eyes of enchantment” period enchants us with its beauty and immerses us in a romantic mood. Let's dive into the world of beauty today and remember the wonderful poems of our poets about autumn.
Beautiful poems dedicated to the autumn season are read by both adults and children. Some people read to their children and grandchildren, others memorize them according to the school curriculum.
Alexander Sergeevich Pushkin
The sky was already breathing in autumn....
The sky was already breathing in autumn.
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she stripped herself,
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.
It's a sad time! Ouch charm!..
It's a sad time! Ouch charm!
I am pleased with your farewell beauty -
I love the lush decay of nature,
Forests dressed in scarlet and gold,
In their canopy there is noise and fresh breath,
And a rare ray of sunshine. and the first frosts,
And distant gray winter threats.
F. Tyutchev
There is in the initial autumn
There is in the initial autumn
A short but wonderful time -
The whole day is like crystal,
And the evenings are radiant...
Where the cheerful sickle walked and the ear fell,
Now everything is empty - space is everywhere -
Only cobwebs thin hair
Glistens on the idle furrow.
The air is empty, the birds are no longer heard,
But the first winter storms are still far away -
And pure and light azure flows
To the resting field...
Many people have known Belmont's poems since childhood. It helps develop speech, memory, introduces us to beautiful time year autumn.
K. Belmont "Autumn"
Lingonberries are ripening,
The days have become colder,
And from the bird's cry
My heart became sadder.
Flocks of birds fly away
Away, beyond the blue sea.
All the trees are shining
In a multi-colored dress.
The sun laughs less often
There is no incense in the flowers.
Autumn will wake up soon
And he will cry sleepily.
Autumn in the poems of Russian poets is thoughtful, sad, mysterious. The poems betray the mood of tired nature. Poems about Indian summer, about autumn rain, about sad cloudy days of late autumn.
Nature in autumn in a poem by A. Pleshcheev
Boring picture!
Endless clouds
The rain keeps pouring down
Puddles by the porch...
Stunted rowan
It gets wet outside the window;
Looks at the village
A gray spot.
Why are you visiting early?
Has autumn come to us?
The heart still asks
Light and warmth!
Everyone is not happy with you!
Your sad look
Woe and adversity
It promises to the poor.
He hears in advance
Children screaming and crying;
No warm clothes
There is no wood in the stove...
Whose autumn are you for?
Hastened the call?
He's thin and pale
The patient is hunched over...
How glad he was of the sun,
How cheerful I was in the spring!
And now - it leads
Yellow leaves noise
For a sick soul
A swarm of ominous thoughts!
Early, early, autumn,
Came to visit us...
Many can't wait
Light and warmth...
F. Fet
The swallows have disappeared.
And yesterday dawned
All the rooks flashed
Over there over that mountain.
Everyone sleeps in the evening,
It's dark outside.
The dry leaf falls
At night the wind gets angry
Yes, he knocks on the window.
It would be better if there was snow and a blizzard
Glad to meet you with breasts!
As if in fright
Shouting out to the south,
The cranes are flying.
You will go out - involuntarily
It’s hard, even if you cry!
Look across the field
Tumbleweed
Bounces like a ball.
Autumn in the poems of the classics is refined, gentle, wise. Everything is intertwined: sadness, longing, joy, love. Touching words, rhymes. everything emphasizes the beauty of Russian nature.
Ivan Bunin
The forest is like a painted tower,
Lilac, gold, crimson,
A cheerful motley wall
Standing above a bright clearing.
Birch trees, yellow carving
Glisten in the blue azure,
Like towers, the fir trees are darkening,
And between the maples they turn blue
Here and there through the foliage
Clearances in the sky, like a window.
The forest smells of oak and pine,
Over the summer it dried out from the sun,
And Autumn is a quiet widow
Enters his motley mansion...
M. Yu. Lermontov “Autumn”
The leaves in the field have turned yellow,
And they circle and fly;
Only in the forest they ate withered
They keep gloomy greenery.
Under the overhanging rock
He really doesn’t like it, between the flowers.
Plowman, take some time to rest
From midday labors.
Beast, brave, unwillingly
He is in a hurry to hide somewhere.
At night the month is dim. and field
Through the fog it only shines silver.
Boris Pasternak
Autumn. Fairytale palace
Open for everyone to review.
Clearings of forest roads,
Looking into the lakes.
Like at a painting exhibition:
Halls, halls, halls, halls
Elm trees, ash trees, aspen trees
Unprecedented in gilding.
Linden gold hoop -
Like a crown on a newlywed.
The face of a birch tree - under a veil
Wedding and transparent.
Buried land
Under leaves in ditches, holes.
In the yellow maple outbuildings,
As if in gilded frames.
Where are the trees in September
At dawn they stand in pairs.
And the sunset on their bark
Leaves an amber trail.
Where you can't step into a ravine,
So that everyone doesn't know:
It's so raging that not a single step
There is a tree leaf underfoot.
Where it sounds at the end of the alleys
Echo at a steep descent
And dawn cherry glue
Solidifies in the form of a clot.
Autumn. Ancient Corner
Old books, clothes, weapons,
Where is the treasure catalog
Flipping through the cold.
These are the wonderful lines of classical poets that we remembered today. What poems do you like about autumn by Russian poets? Write in the comments.
O. Lopatin, V. Nikiforov-Volgin, L. Modzalevsky, M. Prishvin...
The fields are empty, the ground is wet,
The rain is pouring down,
When does this happen? (autumn)
I bring the harvest
I am sowing the fields again,
I send the birds to the south,
I strip the trees.
But I don’t touch the fir trees and pines,
Because I... (autumn)
Frowns, frowns,
Will fall into tears -
There will be nothing left. (cloud)
Raises dust, shakes trees,
Howls, howls,
Tears leaves from trees,
It disperses the clouds and raises the waves. (wind)
A lanky man walked
Stuck in the ground. (rain)
They turn red and yellow,
They fall from the trees,
They're spinning in the air
And they lie down on the ground. (leaves)
Autumn
A.S. Pushkin
The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she stripped herself,
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.
Autumn
A.A. Fet
The swallows have disappeared
And yesterday at dawn
All the rooks were flying
Yes, how the network flashed
Over there over that mountain.
Everyone sleeps in the evening
It's dark outside
Dry leaf falls
At night the wind gets angry
Yes there is a knock on the window...
Uncompressed strip
ON THE. Nekrasov
Late fall. The rooks have flown away
The forest is bare, the fields are empty,
Only one strip is not compressed...
She makes me sad.
The ears seem to whisper to each other:
“It’s boring for us to listen to the autumn blizzard.
It's boring to bow down to the ground,
Fat grains bathing in dust.
Every night we are ravaged by the villages
Every passing voracious bird,
The hare tramples us, and the storm beats us...
Where is our plowman? What else are you waiting for?"
The wind brings them a sad answer
“Your plowman has no urine”...
***
F. Tyutchev
There is in the initial autumn
A short but wonderful time -
The whole day is like crystal,
And the evenings are radiant...
Where the cheerful sickle walked and the ear fell,
Now everything is empty - space is everywhere, -
Only a web of thin hair
Glistens on the idle furrow.
The air is empty, the birds are no longer heard,
But the first winter storms are still far away -
And pure and warm azure flows
To the resting field...
Departure of birds
O. Lopatin
Winged guests fly away
They fly away to the joyful south,
Where everything lives and blooms in freedom,
Without suffering from cold and blizzards.
Every day their songs fall silent,
Every day they leave
Those places where nests were prepared
And they greeted the spring days;
And they fly to distant lands,
TO Mediterranean Sea flying,
They leave fogs behind,
People in the south are rushing to warm up...
Goodbye, visiting guests, -
Only the snowdrop will bloom in the forest,
Only the spring sun will warm,
Your choir will sing with us again.
***
K.R.
The maple and rowan trees turned red
The curls of birch trees are brighter than gold,
And resignedly waits for the dahlia
That the first frost will burn her.
Only poplar and native willow
Everyone doesn't want to give up yet
AND last days living,
Keep the green outfit.
And so far it hasn't snowed
The icy breath of winter,
We are tormented by an incomprehensible bliss,
And we admire sadly.
But summer flew by with spring,
The days of autumn are numbered...
Oh, soon we will be with this beauty
Let's say goodbye until the new spring.
Invitation to school
L. Modzalevsky
Children, get ready for school!
The cockerel crowed a long time ago.
Dress quickly!
The sun looks out the window
Man, and beast, and bird -
Everyone gets down to business;
A bug drags along with a burden;
A bee flies after the honey.
The field is clear, the meadow is cheerful;
The forest is awake and making noise;
Woodpecker with his nose: knock and knock!
The oriole screams loudly.
The fishermen are already dragging their nets;
In the meadow the scythe rings...
Pray for the book, children!
God does not command you to be lazy.
Finished the job, go for a walk safely
Been studying for a long time
A child sits by the window,
And it's been out the window for a long time
The sun beckons the boy:
"Isn't it enough to study?
Isn't it time to have some fun?"
And the boy answered the sun:
"No, bright sunshine, no!
Now I have no use for partying;
Let me finish the lesson first."
The boy writes and reads;
And on a branch outside the window
The bird sings loudly
And he sings about one thing:
"Isn't it enough to study?
Isn't it time to have some fun?"
And the boy answered the bird:
"No, dear bird, no!
Now I have no use for partying;
Let me finish the lesson first."
The boy is still sitting behind a book
And he no longer looks out the window;
And he’s been out of the garden for a long time
Red cherry says:
"Isn't it enough to study?
Isn't it time to have some fun?"
And the boy answered the cherry:
!No, red cherry, no!
Now I have no use for partying;
Let me finish the lesson first."
The boy has finished! It's in the bag!
He put the book on the table;
He jumped into the garden and shouted boldly:
"Come on, who beckoned me?"
The sun laughs at him
A little bird sings to him
Him cherry, blushing,
He hands over his branches.
Proverbs
Feed me in the spring, and in the fall I will be full.
In autumn the sparrow has beer too.
Autumn is the queen: jelly and pancakes; but in the spring it’s smooth: sit and watch.
September is cold and full.
In October, neither on wheels nor on runners.
December ends the year, winter begins.
Ascension does not come on Wednesday, but on Thursday.
Prose
Autumn morning
M. Prishvin
Leaf after leaf falls from the linden tree onto the roof, some leaves like a parachute, some like a moth, some like a cog. Meanwhile, little by little the day opens its eyes, and the wind from the roof lifts all the leaves and they fly to the river somewhere along with migratory birds.
Here you stand on the shore, alone, put your palm to your heart, and with your soul, along with the birds and leaves, you fly somewhere.
And it feels so sad, and so good, and you whisper quietly:
- Fly, fly!
The day takes so long to wake up that by the time the sun comes out it's already lunch time. We rejoice at a nice warm day, but we no longer wait for the flying cobwebs of Indian summer: everyone has scattered, and the cranes are about to fly, and there are geese, rooks - and it will all be over.
flight of cranes
I. Turgenev
A strong, iridescent, ringing cry suddenly sounded above us and was immediately repeated a little ahead... These were belated cranes flying north.
Large beautiful birds(there were only thirteen of them) flew in a triangular formation, sharply and rarely flapping their convex wings. With their heads and legs stretched out tightly, their chests thrust out steeply, they rushed uncontrollably and so quickly that the air whistled all around. It was wonderful to see such a hot, strong life, such an unwavering will. Continuing to triumphantly cut through space, the cranes occasionally echoed with their advanced comrade, with the leader - and there was something proud, important, something indestructibly self-confident in these loud exclamations, in this cloudy conversation: “We’ll get there, I suppose, even though difficult,” they seemed to say, encouraging each other.
Sloth Bear
Folk tale
The club-footed Mishka overfed himself over the summer. He accumulated fat for the whole winter, prepared a den for himself and went to last time take a walk in the forest.
A furry man walks, a clubfoot wanders, he stirs up a dry leaf and rustles through the bushes.
A wolf runs towards him. The bear stops him:
-Where are you running, wolf? Where are you in such a hurry?
The wolf answers:
- How can I not rush? All night I prowl, looking for prey, I want to feed my little wolf cubs.
- Yes! Life is bad for you, wolf... - the bear agreed. “But I, a bear, lie on my side all winter.”
The bear moves on, wandering, staggering, touching stumps and branches. A fox runs towards him, her tail spread, her eyes downcast.
Bear to her:
- Where are you going? Where are you running, little fox? Where are you hurrying, gossip?
The fox responds casually:
- Oh, bear! Well, why shouldn’t I rush? I just ran into the owner’s yard, the dogs saw me, barked, and sharpened their teeth...
“Your life is bad, gossip,” the bear says slowly. - But here I am, a bear, lying there all winter.
The fox ran by, and the bear moved on.
He walks, wanders, rustles dry leaves, touches stumps, brushes. A bunny jumps out from behind a bush and falls right under the bear’s feet.
-Where are you running, bunny? Where are you going, gray one?
- Oh, bear! How can I not rush? I ran into the garden to chew cabbage and devour sweet carrots, and then they removed both the cabbage and the carrots.
“Eh, little gray one, your hare’s life is bad,” the bear took pity on him. - But here I am, a bear, lying in a den all winter.
And the bear went to sleep in his den.
Native lights (sketch)
V. Nikiforov-Volgin
Through and blue, like brittle spring ice, autumn. The air smells of spring water. In the puddles there is heavenly blue, sparkles of the sun and withered leaves.
A large road with deep ruts. Drooping milestones. On both sides of the road there are wide wings of fields. Crows hover over the rye stacks. From the ground there comes a thin, thin, barely perceptible crystal ringing, which only happens in sunny deciduous autumn.
We traveled many miles on an old tarantass, which rural priests and village rich people once rode. The bony red horse, nicknamed Airplane, is ruled by the strong old man Savva, who smells of sheepskin, rye bread and the smoke of the hut - the smell of hut, rye Rus'!...
Savva takes me to the Russian border - Lake Peipsi, from where Russia is visible, Her breathing can be heard, and even in quiet, windless hours, the bells of a rural church and the echoes of evening maiden songs can be heard from the other shore...
The leafy earth rang with a quiet, barely perceptible crystal ringing. It smelled of swamp dampness and autumn withering. An ax was ringing in a nearby grove, and for some reason it was especially reminiscent of autumn. The sun had already gone, and only the dawns glowed in the sky like bright scarves. From the dawns on earth there is a scarlet illumination and unearthly tenderness, such as happens in a monastery church after Vespers. We were approaching Lake Peipsi. Already from a distance the freshness of big water blew on us. The crosses of the white church flickered. The wind was blowing from the Russian side - the Russian wind, which ran through forests, plains, roads and thatched roofs native land. The distant shore was drowned in the sad autumn twilight, but the outlines of black huts, trees, a mill and a lonely boat were still visible.
“Landscape,” wrote Mikhail Prishvin, “is the totality of animals, plants, stones and all other components of nature, attributed to the human personality. In every intimate landscape it is the person himself who moves.” Let us note that “a person moves” who has the gift of seeing, hearing and feeling nature.
The above section includes, in abbreviation, stanza XI of the fourth chapter of the novel “Eugene Onegin”:
The sky was already breathing in autumn,
The sun shone less often,
The day was getting shorter
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she stripped herself,
Fog lay over the fields,
Noisy caravan of geese
Stretched to the south: approaching
Quite a boring time
It was already November outside the yard.
In these ten lines, the transparent simplicity and laconicism of expressions characteristic of Pushkin are palpable. Pushkin’s ability to say a lot in a few words is achieved by the semantic accuracy and expressiveness of each word. “There are few words,” Gogol wrote, “but they are so precise that they mean everything. There is an abyss of space in every word; every word is immense, like a poet.”
The sky was already breathing in autumn.
One metaphor (“sky. was breathing"), and what a capacious and rich meaning it contains! It evokes many associations: cloudy cold days, drizzling rain.
The following lines recreate with calendar accuracy the characteristic signs of this time of year. Each line is a picture of autumn: bare forests, fogs over the fields, birds flying away. The sun, sky, fields, forests, birds - all this is interconnected in nature. And this whole world is given in the perception of the poet, to whom it is dear. It is he who lovingly calls the sun sunshine. It is not the trees that sadly part with their foliage, but the poet who feels sorry for the departing beauty. He's pretty bored at this time of year. Note, not boring, but "enough boring time,” because this time also brings its joys. Pushkin loved autumn, when he worked especially fruitfully. “And every autumn I bloom again,” he wrote.
Mysterious forest canopy
She stripped herself naked with a sad noise.
Senj - book archaic word. The Dictionary of the Russian Academy gives the following interpretation of its meaning: shadow, hut, protection, cover. In the context of Pushkin's lines canopy means green cover (cover) of the forest. It is he who makes the forest dark, as if keeping some secret. And now the trees, as if alive, are exposed, bare, shedding their leaves. When beauty disappears, mystery disappears. Of course, Pushkin’s artistic image is ambiguous. “Every sound, every word in Pushkin,” wrote A. Slonimsky, “gives rise to echoes, overtones, and is surrounded by a swarm of associations.”
Word-image canopy in context, it is the coolness, silence, and peace that the forest gives to people.
The phonics of the lines is rich (repetition of sonorous l, m, n):
Mysterious forest canopy
With a sad noise she stripped herself,
Fog lay over the fields.
Fogs in autumn do not spread like a haze over the ground, but, saturated with moisture, fall heavily on the fields.
Noisy caravan of geese
In definition loud The characteristic behavior of these birds - loud, noisy - is precisely highlighted. In the context of these lines the word loud It also means that the birds, when flying away, say goodbye to summer and their native places.
Why caravan? Geese do not fly in a wedge, like cranes, but in a string. chain. Word stretched has a double meaning: the geese followed each other; longed for sun and warmth.
The verbs in the stanza convey the diverse life of nature: it breathed, shone, became, exposed, lay down, stretched, approached, stood. They have a special place in the line. Inversion (“it was becoming day”, “the fog was laying down”, “it was approaching”, “it was November”), verbal rhyme (it was breathing - it was shining, it was being exposed - it was approaching) make the description dynamic: the sky is breathing, the days are getting shorter, the rubbing is noisy, Carrying away the falling leaves, the birds scream and fly away, fogs fall on the fields, the boring time is approaching, November is entering every home.
Let us pay attention to how masterfully Pushkin used rhyme in the last lines of the stanza (it's time for the yard):
Quite a boring time;
It was already November outside the yard.
The reader's attention is drawn twice to the proximity of late autumn: a boring time, November is just around the corner.
In the stanza there are words of everyday speech (sky, autumn, day, fields, fogs, courtyard, etc.), words of folk poetry (sun), bookish and outdated ones (shone, canopy, exposed, time), traditional poetic vocabulary (“mysterious canopy", "with sad noise"). This fusion of different lexical layers into a single whole is characteristic of Pushkin’s style.
Everything here is extremely simple, natural, like entries in a diary: the day became shorter; It was November. by the yard.
“If we wanted to characterize Pushkin’s verse in one word,” wrote V. G. Belinsky, “we would say that it is superior poetic, artistic, artistic verse - and this would unravel the secret of the pathos of all of Pushkin’s poetry. »
Artistry is a sense of proportion, harmony, naturalness and beauty of words. All these unsurpassed achievements of Russian poetry are generated by great talent and enormous labor invisible to the reader, a painful search for the only necessary word.
After Pushkin’s death, Zhukovsky, while sorting through his archive, got acquainted with the poet’s manuscripts and was amazed at “with what difficulty he wrote his light, flying poems! There isn’t a line that hasn’t been scribbled out several times.”
You can spend two sessions studying the passage. The first will begin with finding out what students know about Pushkin’s life, what works they have read, what they like about the poet’s poems and fairy tales. Based on the students’ answers, the teacher will build his introductory speech. Then the teacher reads the stanza by heart. If he has a gramophone record (supplement to the magazine “Russian Language in the National School”, 1986), then you can listen to the stanza performed by the actor.
In the same lesson, it is advisable to use one of the reproductions of paintings: “Golden Autumn” by I. Levitan, “ Golden autumn"V. Polenov, as well as beautiful landscapes by A. Gritsai: "Autumn. Pavlovskoye village”, “Autumn in the forest”, “Autumn. North wind".
Listen to Pushkin's poem The sky was breathing in autumn