O' ER the Steppes rode he, the Cossack,
Vdovà was dwelling there—
“Dobry den! Good day, poor widow,
Is all well? How dost thou fare?

“I but ask a drink of water—
Widow, with thy husband fled,
Wilt thou give it for the asking?”. . . .
“How knew'st thou that he was dead?”

“By thy garden I could tell it—
Sad and lonesome is the sight.
And thy heart is ever grieving:
Tell me then—am I not right?

“In the garden of the widow
Coreopsis blossoms not,
Never blooms a single flower
In so desolate a spot.”
(In the garden of the widow,
Yea, in truth the wild weeds grow.
But her children they are tended,
And a mother's love they know.)

“The rain, O the rain
On her unploughed field!
What should be the yield?

Who is fain, who is fain
For Vdovà to toil,
On the weed-grown soil?
With fine, fine tears it is raining now. . . .
When one comes from the tomb
Vdovà shall plough!”