And if one die,—the grave
Will warm his hands and feet!
Dost to my song respond?
Nay? Then it is complete.
NIKITIN.
THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD
The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould….
O Life,—so o'erflowing with sorrows untold,
My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,
Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary—
Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky,
And as a fire of the field wilt thou die!
Die then—no sad falling tear will recall thee,
Fast will the roof of thy pine coffin wall thee,
Heavy the earth falls upon the sad hearted—
Only one more from humanity parted;
One whose home-going no fond heart is tearing—
One for whom no soul will sorrow despairing!
Hark! What a silvery music is ringing!
Hark! What a careless and jubilant singing!
See on ethereal azure waves swinging,
Now the glad lark to her South-land is winging!
Silence, O Life full of doubting and fears,
Hushed first of all be the songs of men's tears!
NIKITIN.
GOSSIP
Though blameless thy living
As Anchorite's fate,
Yet Gossip will find thee
Or early or late.
Through keyhole he enters
And stands at thy side,
Doors of wood nor of stone
Against him provide.
He pulls the alarm bell
At slightest excuse—
And down to thy grave
Will pursue with abuse.