Heavily hangs the rye
Bent to the trampled ground;
While brave men fighting die
Through blood the horses bound.

Under the white birch-tree
A Cossack bold is slain—
They lift him tenderly
Into the ruined grain.

Some one has borne him there,
Some one has put in place
A scarlet cloth, with prayer,
Over the up-turned face.

Softly a girl has come.
Dove-like she looks—all grey—
Stares at the soldier dumb
And, crying, goes away.

Then, swift, another maid
—Ah, how unlike she is!—
With grief and passion swayed
Gives him her farewell kiss.

The third one does not cry,
Caresses none has she;
“Three girls thy love flung by,
Death rightly came to thee!”