"My feet are heavy,
My heart is weary,
No way is clear;
O Earth my mother,
Guide me and tell me
What course to steer.
Anxious I nestle,
Close to thy bosom;
I listen, I peer—
And out of the dark depths
Comes a soft whisper—
'Hide thy grief here!'"
"Not so bad, eh? That's the way of things. One goes, as it were, through a break in a forest, sees a light all of a sudden, then finds no way that'll lead to it. Listen, Ilya. Will you come with me? Come! I don't want to say good-bye yet." Gratschev got up suddenly, caught Ilya by the sleeve, and looked in his face in a friendly way.
"I'll come," said Ilya. "I'd like some more talk with you. To tell the truth, I hardly know how to believe you made those verses yourself."
"You don't believe? Doesn't matter. You'll see right enough that I did," said Pavel, as they came out into the street.
"If they are your verses, then you're a fine fellow," cried Ilya, in downright bewilderment. "Only stick to it! Show people what life is really like!"
"Right, brother. Once I've learnt properly how, then I'll write. They shall hear it."
"Good! good! Plan it out well! Let 'em know!"
"Often I think, when things are quiet, 'Ah, you people, you're full and warmly clothed, and I——'"
"It's not fair."
"Am I not a man too?"