At least to see his sweetheart. But not so—
He pleaded not enough.... They buried him ...
And none will mourn him, buried far away;
They placed a cross upon the orphan’s grave
And journeyed on.
As the grass withers, as the leaf falls on the stream,
Is borne to distance dim,
The Cossack left this world, and took with him
All that he had.
Where is the kerchief, silken-wrought?