Мертві душі

           Ah,Russia,Russia,frommybeautifulhomeinastrangelandIcanstillseeyou!Inyoueverythingispooranddisorderedandunhomely;inyoutheeyeisneithercheerednordismayedbytemeritiesofnaturewhichayetmoretemerariousarthasconquered;inyouonebeholdsnocitieswithlofty,many-windowedmansions,loftyascrags,nopicturesquetrees,noivy-cladruins,nowaterfallswiththeireverlastingsprayandroar,nobeetlingprecipiceswhichconfusethebrainwiththeirstonyimmensity,novistasofvinesandivyandmillionsofwildrosesandagelesslinesofbluehillswhichlookalmostunrealagainsttheclear,silverybackgroundofthesky.Inyoueverythingisflatandopen;yourtownsprojectlikepointsorsignalsfromsmoothlevelsofplain,andnothingwhatsoeverenchantsordeludestheeye.Yetwhatsecret,whatinvincibleforcedrawsmetoyou?Whydoesthereceaselesslyechoandre-echoinmyearsthesadsongwhichhoversthroughoutthelengthandthebreadthofyourborders?Whatistheburdenofthatsong?Whydoesitwailandsobandcatchatmyheart?Whatsaythenoteswhichthuspainfullycaressandembracemysoul,andflit,utteringtheirlamentations,aroundme?Whatisityouseekofme,ORussia?Whatisthehiddenbondwhichsubsistsbetweenus?Whydoyouregardmeasyoudo?Whydoeseverythingwithinyouturnuponmeeyesfullofyearning?Evenatthismoment,asIstanddumbly,fixedly,perplexedlycontemplatingyourvastness,amenacingcloud,chargedwithgatheringrain,seemstoovershadowmyhead.