HUNGER
Hark! Who knocks with bony fingers
On the hut's small window latch?
Hark! Who pulls away the stubble
Rustling, from the roofing thatch?
From the fields it is not Vintage,
Drunk and weary wavers home—
'Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy,
As a nightmare dread become.
All subduing, all destroying,
In his ragged garment poor,
Drags he,—on his crutches limping—
Noiseless reeling through the door.
Like the usurer hard hearted,
For his last kopek in quest,
Coffer, cupboard both he opens,
Breaks the lock of case and chest.
Lordly rules he, late and early—
In the granary; when gone
Every kernel of provision,
The last cattle he will pawn.
From the land unto the cellar,
Clean the peasant's hut he keeps,
With a coarse and clumsy besom
Every tiny crumb he sweeps.
On the village highway also
Works and wins he over all,
From the threshing floor to stable—
From the sheepfold to the stall.
His approaching, sorrow follows—
On his coming, follows need,
On his greeting, follows sickness,
On his hand-shake Death succeeds!
So he seeks in all directions,
East and West and South and North—
And in empty field embraces
Thankfully his friend the Frost!