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.
«And once more the autumn blasts like Tamerlane, / There is silence in the streets of Arbat. / Beyond the little station or beyond the haze / The impassable road is dark. So here it is, the latest one! And the rage / Subsides. It's as if the world had gone deaf... / A mighty, evangelical o...»
«The one people once called / King in jest, God in fact, / Who was killed, and whose implement of torture / Was heated by the warmth of my breast... / The disciples of Christ tasted death, / And the old gossips, and the soldiers, / And the procurator from Rome — all gone. / There, whe...»
«Oh, to hell with this storm, damn this snow and hail – / pounding on the rooftop, driving in white nails! / But me – I’m not frightened, and I know my fate: / my wastrel heart has nailed me to you – nailed us tight! »
«There are such easy ways / to leave this life, / to burn to an end / without pain or thought, / but a Russian poet / has no such luck. / A bullet is more likely / to show his winged soul / the way to Heaven; / or else the shaggy paw / of voiceless terror will squeeze / the life...»