O'er the aged features,
O'er the dying form,
O'er the two small children
On the stove bench warm.
Sudden, through the stillness
Rings a merry cry—
And his jingling troika
Drives a reveller by!
Dies in silent distance
Sleighbell clangor strong,
And the careless, merry,
Sorrow-troubling song.
NIKITIN.
THE BIRCH TREE
From bald and sun-parched earth it rises,
One lonely birch, high towering—
Upon its withered crown wide spreading,
Green leafage never more will sing.
Up to the rim of the horizon
Where veiling mists all soft enclose,
Runneth the blossoming of flowers,
The Steppe's green ocean waving flows.
In green enchantment stands the Kurgan,
Where evening dampness doth enfold,
The night descends with sleep and coolness,
The morning sunbeams touch with gold.
Yet loveless, helpless stands the birch tree—
In heaven's grey, musing sad to view,
And from its branches fall like tear-drops
The gleaming pearls of morning dew.
Scattered, alas! her tender leaflets,
In howling storms,—so far, so wide!
Ne'er will the birch, to greet the Springtide,
Be fresh adorned in leafy pride!