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Vy sprashivaete menya kak delayutsya romany. Madam, esli by ya znal, ya by ih nikogda ne pisal. - A. Morua

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         UMIRAYUSCHIJ

  Ostav', dusha, somnen'ya i nadezhdy!
Konets bor'be s mirskim vsesil'nym zlom.
YA chuvstvuyu: somknutsya skoro vezhdy,
Blizka pora zasnut' poslednim snom!

  Istoscheny besplodno nashi sily;
My, ne schadya, ih tratili v bor'be;
No u dverej temneyuschej mogily
My ne poshlem proklyatiya sud'be.

  I ot nee ne zhdem my vozdayan'ya
Za vse, chem zhizn' byla otravlena...
Stradali my - no byli te stradan'ya
Dorozhe nam bezdejstviya i sna.

  Pokinem mir spokojno, bez upreka;
Pust' ne dlya nas pobednye ventsy,
Pust' tsel' ot nas byla esche daleka,
No pali my, kak chestnye bortsy!..

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