Alexander Pushkin — The Prophet

My lonely heart athirst, I trod

A barren waste when, so 'twas fated,

A winged seraph 'fore me stood:

Where crossed the desert roads he waited.

Upon my orbs of sightless clay

His fingers lightly he did lay.

And like a startled eagle round me

I gazed and saw the earth surrounded,

Hemmed in by sky... He touched my ear,

Then t'other, and, most marked and clear,

There came to me the gentle flutter

Of angels' wings, I heard the vine

Push through the earth and skyward climb,

The deep-sea monsters in the water

Like tiny fishes glide... And o'er

Me calm he bent and out he tore

My sinful tongue... Not once withdrawing

His gaze from mine, he pushed, unseen,

A serpent's deadly sting between

My ice-cold lips... Then, swiftly drawing

His shining sword, he clove my breast,

Plucked out my quivering heart, and, sombre

And grim of aspect, coolly thrust

Into the gaping hole an ember

That ran with flame... I lay there, dead,

And God, God spake, and this He said:

"Arise, O sage! My summons hearing, 

Do as I bid, by naught deterred;

Stride o'er the earth, a prophet, searing 

The hearts of men with righteous word."

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