Again the poor peasants 120
Are sunk in the depths
Of the bottomless gulf!
Dejected and silent,
They lie on their stomachs
Absorbed in reflection.
But then they start singing;
And slowly the song,
Like a ponderous cloud-bank,
Rolls mournfully onwards.
They sing it so clearly 130
That quickly our seven
Have learnt it as well.
The Hungry One
The peasant stands
With haggard gaze,
He pants for breath,
He reels and sways;
From famine food,
From bread of bark,
His form has swelled,
His face is dark. 140
Through endless grief
Suppressed and dumb
His eyes are glazed,
His soul is numb.
As though in sleep,
With footsteps slow,
He creeps to where
The rye doth grow.
Upon his field
He gazes long, 150
He stands and sings
A voiceless song:
"Grow ripe, grow ripe,
O Mother rye,
I fostered thee,
Thy lord am I.
"Yield me a loaf
Of monstrous girth,
A cake as vast
As Mother-Earth. 160
"I'll eat the whole—
No crumb I'll spare;
With wife, with child,
I will not share."