Alexander Blok (1880–1921)

TO sin, unshamed, to lose, unthinking,

The count of careless nights and days,

And then, while the head aches with drinking,

Steal to God’s house, with eyes that glaze;

Thrice to bow down to earth, and seven

Times cross oneself beside the door,

With the hot brow, in hope of heaven,

Touching the spittle-covered floor;

With a brass farthing’s gift dismissing

The offering, the holy Name

To mutter with loose lips, in kissing

The ancient, kiss-worn icon-frame;

And coming home, then, to be tricking

Some wretch out of the same small coin,

And with an angry hiccup, kicking

A lean cur in his trembling groin;

And where the icon’s flame is quaking

Drink tea, and reckon loss and gain,

From the fat chest of drawers taking

The coupons wet with spittle-stain;

And sunk in feather-beds to smother

In slumber, such as bears may know,

Dearer to me than every other

Are you, my Russia, even so.