Classic Poem

Ah, friends! You too have had your sorrows, — else
A song would never make you weep. Well now,
Just hear what I have gone through, — then you 'll know
What sorrow really means.
My father died
When I was just nineteen, and I was left
An orphan, and at first alone, — but soon
A neighbour's daughter won my heart; I pleased her,
And we were married, — happily did we live
Together. I could fancy she had brought me
Happiness with her — (Heaven be hers, poor thing!)
You can't conceive how good a manager
She was, — she would n't waste a single farthing.
In the long winter evenings, she would light
A firewood splinter, and then spin away
For hours, — not pausing till the cock would crow.
Then would she lay her down, — but with the dawn
She was up again, — would run to give their food
To the sheep and cows, — next light the fire, — and then
Betake her to the spinning-wheel again,
Or find some other indoor work to do.
When summer came, she helped to cut the rye
And carry it, nor ever weary. I would say,
" Is n't it time to rest? "
" Oh, no! " she 'd cry,
" I 'm not a bit tired. " —
Every now and then
Perhaps I 'd buy her something as a present.
" You need n't have done that, my bonny bird, "
She 'd say, " we love each other much too well
To care for presents — don't go wasting money
On me. " —

My life with her was just as if
I'd been in Paradise.
But no one knows
How calamity may fall upon him!
My wife lay down to rest within the grave, —
The world grows dark whene'er I think of it.

My only consolation was my child, —
I 'd only one, — a fair-skinned, dark-haired boy,
As like his mother as one drop to another; —
He had begun to spell a bit already,
And I to think, " My boy will be a man. "
But that was not God's pleasure. — In the spring
He got some kind of sickness. We called in
Wise women, soothsayers, had magic drinks
For him to take. I promised I would give
A rouble for a candle, — to be burnt
Before the holy image in the church — —
But God refused to listen to my prayer —
I had to lay my darling in the coffin,
And bear him to the graveyard. — —

In those days,
Those dreary days, 't was bitter for me, friends!
My heavy arms hung listlessly, — my neighbours
Gathered their harvest. All the fields around
Were blithe with song — But there I pined away
With heavy sorrow. When the day was done,
The heavy-laden carts would come from the field
And in a line drive creaking through the village.
But in my cottage I would sit alone
Trying to stem my tears.
The autumn passed.
I waited till the first snow fell. — Methought
I 'll sell my rye, fit up a sledge, and go
And earn a living with it somewhere.
Suddenly
Woe upon woe! A murrain seized my cattle, —
Never until I die shall I forget
That fatal year. —
I managed to get through
The winter somehow. But I saw I 'd lost
My old position. In our village meetings,
This one would flout me, saying: — " Good! It seems
The barest beggar thinks he has the right
To meddle in the business of the Commune! "
That one would gird at me behind my back,
And cry: — " The lazy fellow! Such a one as he
Will never gain his bread. In my opinion,
If one 's a man, one never will give way,
Whatever happens. "
All this talk and laughter
Aroused me; — God assisted me, I think.
I felt a longing for a freer life.
I got a passport, paid up all my taxes,
And joined the bargemen.
Since that time my grief
Has yielded to the Volga's dark blue wave — —
Rest follows toil: upon the river side
Bright burns the evening fire, — a comrade starts
A song, — the rest join in, — your spirits rise, —
A thrill runs o'er your limbs, — you sing yourself.
And if at times a dreary season comes,
And half-forgotten sorrows vex your soul, —
There 's solace still. You hear the river's roar,
Singing a freedom to the sweeping plain.
Fast beats your heart; — you burn, — though wintry cold
The weather, yet you want no cloak to warm you.
Aboard and take your seat! Fall back on the oar!
Pleasant it is to brave the Russian storm.
The waves run mountain-high, — in snowy flakes
The foam flies fast; strange voices groan and wail.
The tempest roars and whistles, — from your soul
A cry arises: " Let God's will be done.
If we 're to live, we 'll live. And if to die, —
Well then, so be it! " And you feel as though
Your heart had never known what sorrow meant.