About the church they circle
And softly slink away
To prowl about the priest's farm,
Then of a sudden they
Are round the drink shop turning,
Fain some bad word be learning—
From peasants drinking noisily within.
With fully thirteen bullets
Thy weapon must be armed,
And with a wad of goat's hair;
Then thou wilt fight unharmed.
Fire calmly,—and before all
Will the leader, the grey, fall,
The rest will surely follow one by one.
When the cock wakes the village
From out its morning dream,
Thou wilt behold the corpses—
Nine she-wolves by the stream!
On the right lies the grey one,
To left in frost the lame one—
All bloody,—God pardon us sinners!
TOLSTOY.
AUTUMN
Autumn 'tis! Our garden stands
Flowerless and bare,
Dizzy whirling yellow leaves
Fill the wind swept air.
Yet the distant mountain ash
In the vale below,
With our favorite berries red
Now begins to glow.
While with rapture and with pain
Throbbing in my breast,
Pressing hot thy hands in mine,
Silent, unexpressed—
Fondly gazing in thine eyes,
Through my tears I see—
That I can never tell thee
How dear thou art to me!
TOLSTOY.
BURNT OUT IS NOW MY MISERY
Burnt out is now my misery—
love's yearning
No more unspeakably torments my heart,
Yet bearable alone through thee, my being—
All thou art not is idle, stale and dying,
Colourless, withered, dead,—save where thou art!
If I no more through false suspicion trouble
Thy happiness,—nor more my blood inflames my veins,
It is not turned to ice 'neath snowy cover,
But free from jealousy, to thee thy lover
Always with soul of ardour true remains.