THE RING
Vorobkievich
It is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye,
Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring;
“If I do not return from war, but there lay my head,
This ring shall remind you aye of your true love.”
Early this morning the ring on my finger broke.
Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head!
I will to the fortune-teller—“Young am I, but sad;
Read me the sign of the ring. I fear that some evil comes.”
· · · · ·
“There is no good news here; this that you see means blood!”
· · · · ·
“O mother, my heart burns up! My heart burns like a fire.”
The world in her eyes turned black, and she fainted as quietly
As a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.
In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak.
Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year.
And her loved one from the war has never, never returned.
In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep.