These verses now are written. Nay, I write
But for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease.
Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far away
The words flow in and spread the paper o’er;
Laughing and crying as the children do
They gladden my poor soul, uncomforted,
Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them,
With them would always stay. They are my own.
As a rich father loves his little ones,
So am I glad and merry with my own.