V OROBKIEVICH

I T is about a month since my loved one bade me good-bye,
Since he went away, and wept, and gave me the ring;
" If I do not return from war, but there lay my head,
This ring shall remind you aye of your true love. "

Early this morning the ring on my finger broke.
Doubtless the raven croaks, perching upon his head!
I will to the fortune-teller — " Young am I, but sad;
Read me the sign of the ring. I fear that some evil comes. "
. . . . . . . . .

" There is no good news here; this that you see means blood! "
. . . . . . . . .

" O mother, my heart burns up! My heart burns like a fire. "
The world in her eyes turned black, and she fainted as quietly
As a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.

In a village graveyard old there stands a cross of oak.
Under it dreams a girl; she has dreamt this many a year.
And her loved one from the war has never, never returned
In a far-off land, somewhere, he fell into dreamless sleep.