Classic Poem

It was not a horn that in the early morning sounded;
It was a maiden her ruddy braid lamenting:
“Last night they twined my braid together,
And interweaved my braid with pearls.
Luká Ivánovich—Heaven requite him!—
Has sent a pitiless svákha hither.
My braid has she begun to rend.
Tearing out the gold from my braid,
Shaking my pearls from my ruddy braids.”