I view the promised land before me, —
Gleaming of waters, tents of trees.
But anger of the Lord forbore me
To touch the dower I long to seize.
I rose from heat and sandy places,
I tasted death in living hours:
My strength so wanes, that it effaces
Within my soul all placid powers.
And if my mournful-tuned ovation
Is chanted to that glad domain,
I shape a hymn of salutation,
Not for my own, but others' gain.
Я вижу край обетованный,
Сверканье вод, шатры дерев.
Но преступить предлог желанный
Мне запретил Господний гнев.
Устал я от песков и зноя,
Еще при жизни смерть вкусил.
Так изнемог, что для покоя
В моей душе нет больше сил.
И если радостному краю
Поет привет мой грустный стих,
Я гимн приветственный слагаю
Не для себя, а для других.
«I felt in soul and body, / for the first time in years, / the silence after a blizzard, / the even light of the stars. Should the magi wish to see / their kindness to the end, / they’d bring me sheets of paper / A candle. Matches. And a pen. »
«From a frost-chilled / line of poetry / my anguish will drop / like a ripe berry. Rosehip juice will dye / fine crystals of snow — / and a stranger will smile / on his lonely way. Blending dirty sweat / with the purity of a tear, / he will carefully collect / the tinted crystal...»
«Our tools are primitive / and simple: / a rouble’s worth of paper, / a hurrying pencil, we need no more / to build a castle — / high in the air — / above the world’s bustle. Dante needed nothing else / to build gates / into that Hell hole / founded on ice.»
«They say we plough shallow, / always tripping and slipping, / but it’s hard to plough boldly / on the soil we’ve been given. We plough in a graveyard / just tickling the topsoil, / afraid our blades may turn up / bones of dead people.»