Everything has been checked. My inventory is ready.
O bell, strike for the last time.
For the last time sound the final departure.
Everything has been checked, nothing holds me here,
And voices call from the mists.
O, voices call in hope and freedom...
Everything has been checked. My bow to the past...
O bell, what an anxious sound,
What an anxious sound you send untiring...
Here soon will be the mountain pass,
Which my spirit has awaited with such rapture,
And sullenly the present passes by.
Всё пересмотрено. Готов мой инвентарь.
О, колокол, в последний раз ударь.
Последний раз звучи последнему уходу.
Всё пересмотрено, ничто не держит тут.
А из туманов голоса зовут.
О, голоса зовут в надежду и свободу.
Всё пересмотрено. Былому мой поклон…
О, колокол, какой тревожный звон,
Какой крылатый звон ты шлёшь неутомимо…
Вот скоро будет горный перевал,
Которого мой дух с таким восторгом ждал,
А настоящее идёт угрюмо мимо.
Я оставляю плату, труд и торг,
Я принимаю крылья и восторг,
Я говорю торжественно: «Во имя,
Во имя кре́стное, во имя кре́стных уз,
Во имя кре́стной муки, Иисус,
Я делаю все́ дни мои Твоими.»
«And in conclusion I will say, / Farewell, don’t pledge your love in vanity. / My mind’s away, or on its way / Towards the higher loss of sanity. How loved was I? — You toyed with my / Mortality — that does not matter. / How loved was I? — You made me die, / But you could mak...»
«(From "Who Can Live Happily in Russia?") God's will be done! / No food he'll try, / The youngest son— / Look, he will die. A crust I got, / Another bit— / He touched it not: / "Put salt on it!" Of salt no shred, / No pinch I see! / "Take flour, instead," / God whispered me. ...»
«My poems! Witnesses of unavailing / Tears for the sad earth shed! / Born in the moment when the soul is failing, / And by the storm-winds bred; / Against men's hearts you beat with wistful wailing / Like waves on cliffs as dead.»
«The capitals are rocked with thunder / Of orators in wordy feuds. / But in the depths of Russia, yonder, / An age-old awful silence broods. / Only the wind in wayside willows, / Coming and going, does not cease; / And corn-stalks touch in curving billows / The earth that cherishes and ...»