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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.