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Nikolay Nekrasov - Who is happy in Russia?
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PROLOGUE

The year doesn't matter,
  The land's not important,
But seven good peasants
  Once met on a high-road.
From Province "Hard-Battered,"
  From District "Most Wretched,"
From "Destitute" Parish,
  From neighbouring hamlets-
"Patched," "Barefoot," and "Shabby,"
  "Bleak," "Burnt-Out," and "Hungry,"
From "Harvestless" also, 11
  They met and disputed
Of who can, in Russia,
  Be happy and free?
Luka said, "The pope," [2]
  And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick," [3]
Demyan, "The official,"
  "The round-bellied merchant,"
  Said both brothers Goobin,
Mitrodor and Ivan. 20
  Pakhom, who'd been lost
In profoundest reflection,
  Exclaimed, looking down
At the earth, "'Tis his Lordship,
  His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser,"
  And Prov said, "The Tsar."
Like bulls are the peasants:
  Once folly is in them
You cannot dislodge it 30
  Although you should beat them
With stout wooden cudgels:
  They stick to their folly,
And nothing can move them.
  They raised such a clamour
That those who were passing
  Thought, "Surely the fellows
Have found a great treasure
  And share it amongst them!"
They all had set out 40
  On particular errands:
The one to the blacksmith's,
  Another in haste
To fetch Father Prokoffy
  To christen his baby.
Pakhom had some honey
  To sell in the market;
The two brothers Goobin
  Were seeking a horse
Which had strayed from their herd. 50
Long since should the peasants
  Have turned their steps homewards,
But still in a row
  They are hurrying onwards
As quickly as though
  The grey wolf were behind them.
Still further, still faster
  They hasten, contending.
Each shouts, nothing hearing,
  And time does not wait. 60
In quarrel they mark not
The fiery-red sunset
  Which blazes in Heaven
As evening is falling,
  And all through the night
They would surely have wandered
  If not for the woman,
The pox-pitted "Blank-wits,"
  Who met them and cried:
"Heh, God-fearing peasants, 70
  Pray, what is your mission?
What seek ye abroad
  In the blackness of midnight?"
So shrilled the hag, mocking,
  And shrieking with laughter
She slashed at her horses
  And galloped away.
The peasants are startled,
  Stand still, in confusion,
Since long night has fallen, 80
  The numberless stars
Cluster bright in the heavens,
The moon gliding onwards.
  Black shadows are spread
On the road stretched before
  The impetuous walkers.
Oh, shadows, black shadows,
  Say, who can outrun you,
Or who can escape you?
  Yet no one can catch you, 90
Entice, or embrace you!
Pakhom, the old fellow,
  Gazed long at the wood,
At the sky, at the roadway,
  Gazed, silently searching
His brain for some counsel,
  And then spake in this wise:
"Well, well, the wood-devil
  Has finely bewitched us!
We've wandered at least 100
  Thirty versts from our homes.
We all are too weary
  To think of returning
To-night; we must wait
  Till the sun rise to-morrow."
Thus, blaming the devil,
  The peasants make ready
To sleep by the roadside.
  They light a large fire,
And collecting some farthings 110
  Send two of their number
To buy them some vodka,
  The rest cutting cups
From the bark of a birch-tree.
The vodka's provided,
  Black bread, too, besides,
And they all begin feasting:
  Each munches some bread
And drinks three cups of vodka-
  But then comes the question 120
Of who can, in Russia,
  Be happy and free?
Luka cries, "The pope!"
  And Roman, "The Pomyeshchick!"
And Prov shouts, "The Tsar!"
And Demyan, "The official!"
  "The round-bellied merchant!"
Bawl both brothers Goobin,
  Mitrodor and Ivan.
Pakhom shrieks, "His Lordship, 130
  His most mighty Highness,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser!"
The obstinate peasants
  Grow more and more heated,
Cry louder and louder,
  Swear hard at each other;
I really believe
  They'll attack one another!
Look! now they are fighting!
  Roman and Pakhom close, 140
Demyan clouts Luka,
  While the two brothers Goobin
Are drubbing fat Prov,
  And they all shout together.
Then wakes the clear echo,
  Runs hither and thither,
Runs calling and mocking
As if to encourage
  The wrath of the peasants.
The trees of the forest 150
  Throw furious words back:
"The Tsar!" "The Pomyeshchick!"
  "The pope!" "The official!"
Until the whole coppice
  Awakes in confusion;
The birds and the insects,
  The swift-footed beasts
And the low crawling reptiles
  Are chattering and buzzing
And stirring all round. 160
  The timid grey hare
Springing out of the bushes
  Speeds startled away;
The hoarse little jackdaw
  Flies off to the top
Of a birch-tree, and raises
  A harsh, grating shriek,
A most horrible clamour.
  A weak little peewit
Falls headlong in terror 170
From out of its nest,
  And the mother comes flying
In search of her fledgeling.
  She twitters in anguish.
Alas! she can't find it.
  The crusty old cuckoo
Awakes and bethinks him
  To call to a neighbour:
Ten times he commences
  And gets out of tune, 180
But he won't give it up...
Call, call, little cuckoo,
  For all the young cornfields
Will shoot into ear soon,
  And then it will choke you-
The ripe golden grain,
  And your day will be ended![4]
From out the dark forest
  Fly seven brown owls,
And on seven tall pine-trees 190
  They settle themselves
To enjoy the disturbance.
  They laugh-birds of night-
And their huge yellow eyes gleam
  Like fourteen wax candles.
The raven-the wise one-
  Sits perched on a tree
In the light of the fire,
  Praying hard to the devil
That one of the wranglers, 200
  At least, should be beaten
To death in the tumult.
  A cow with a bell
Which had strayed from its fellows
  The evening before,
Upon hearing men's voices
  Comes out of the forest
And into the firelight,
  And fixing its eyes,
Large and sad, on the peasants, 210
  Stands listening in silence
Some time to their raving,
  And then begins mooing,
Most heartily moos.
The silly cow moos,
  The jackdaw is screeching,
The turbulent peasants
  Still shout, and the echo
Maliciously mocks them-
  The impudent echo 220
Who cares but for mocking
  And teasing good people,
For scaring old women
  And innocent children:
Though no man has seen it
  We've all of us heard it;
It lives-without body;
  It speaks-without tongue.
  The pretty white owl
Called the Duchess of Moscow 230
  Comes plunging about
In the midst of the peasants,
Now circling above them,
  Now striking the bushes
And earth with her body.
And even the fox, too,
  The cunning old creature,
With woman's determined
  And deep curiosity,
Creeps to the firelight 240
  And stealthily listens;
At last, quite bewildered,
  She goes; she is thinking,
"The devil himself
  Would be puzzled, I know!"
And really the wranglers
  Themselves have forgotten
The cause of the strife.
But after awhile
  Having pummelled each other 250
Sufficiently soundly,
  They come to their senses;
They drink from a rain-pool
  And wash themselves also,
And then they feel sleepy.
And, meanwhile, the peewit,
  The poor little fledgeling,
With short hops and flights
  Had come fluttering towards them.
Pakhom took it up 260
  In his palm, held it gently
Stretched out to the firelight,
  And looked at it, saying,
"You are but a mite,
  Yet how sharp is your claw;
If I breathed on you once
  You'd be blown to a distance,
And if I should sneeze
  You would straightway be wafted
Right into the flames. 270
  One flick from my finger
Would kill you entirely.
  Yet you are more powerful,
More free than the peasant:
  Your wings will grow stronger,
And then, little birdie,
  You'll fly where it please you.
Come, give us your wings, now,
  You frail little creature,
And we will go flying 280
  All over the Empire,
To seek and inquire,
  To search and discover
The man who in Russia-
  Is happy and free."
"No wings would be needful
  If we could be certain
Of bread every day;
  For then we could travel
On foot at our leisure," 290
  Said Prov, of a sudden
Grown weary and sad.
"But not without vodka,
  A bucket each morning,"
Cried both brothers Goobin,
  Mitrodor and Ivan,
Who dearly loved vodka.
"Salt cucumbers, also,
  Each morning a dozen!"
The peasants cry, jesting. 300
"Sour qwass,[5] too, a jug
  To refresh us at mid-day!"
"A can of hot tea
  Every night!" they say, laughing.
But while they were talking
  The little bird's mother
Was flying and wheeling
  In circles above them;
She listened to all,
  And descending just near them 310
She chirruped, and making
  A brisk little movement
She said to Pakhom
  In a voice clear and human:
"Release my poor child,
  I will pay a great ransom."
"And what is your offer?"

"A loaf each a day
  And a bucket of vodka,
Salt cucumbers also, 320
  Each morning a dozen.
At mid-day sour qwass
  And hot tea in the evening."
"And where, little bird,"
  Asked the two brothers Goobin,
"And where will you find
  Food and drink for all seven?"
"Yourselves you will find it,
  But I will direct you
To where you will find it." 330
  "Well, speak. We will listen."
"Go straight down the road,
  Count the poles until thirty:
Then enter the forest
And walk for a verst.
  By then you'll have come
To a smooth little lawn
  With two pine-trees upon it.
Beneath these two pine-trees
  Lies buried a casket 340
Which you must discover.
  The casket is magic,
And in it there lies
  An enchanted white napkin.
Whenever you wish it
  This napkin will serve you
With food and with vodka:
  You need but say softly,
'O napkin enchanted,
  Give food to the peasants!' 350
At once, at your bidding,
  Through my intercession
The napkin will serve you.
  And now, free my child."
"But wait. We are poor,
  And we're thinking of making
A very long journey,"
  Pakhom said. "I notice
That you are a bird
  Of remarkable talent. 360
So charm our old clothing
  To keep it upon us."
"Our coats, that they fall not
  In tatters," Roman said.
"Our laputs,[6] that they too
  May last the whole journey,"
Demyan next demanded.
"Our shirts, that the fleas
  May not breed and annoy us,"
Luka added lastly. 370
The little bird answered,
  "The magic white napkin
Will mend, wash, and dry for you.
  Now free my child."
Pakhom then spread open
  His palm, wide and spacious,
Releasing the fledgeling,
  Which fluttered away
To a hole in a pine-tree.
  The mother who followed it 380
Added, departing:
  "But one thing remember:
Food, summon at pleasure
  As much as you fancy,
But vodka, no more
  Than a bucket a day.
If once, even twice
  You neglect my injunction
Your wish shall be granted;
  The third time, take warning: 390
Misfortune will follow."
The peasants set off
  In a file, down the road,
Count the poles until thirty
  And enter the forest,
And, silently counting
Each footstep, they measure
  A verst as directed.
They find the smooth lawn
  With the pine-trees upon it, 400
They dig all together
  And soon reach the casket;
They open it-there lies
  The magic white napkin!
They cry in a chorus,
  "O napkin enchanted,
Give food to the peasants!"
Look, look! It's unfolding!
  Two hands have come floating
From no one sees where; 410
  Place a bucket of vodka,
A large pile of bread
  On the magic white napkin,
And dwindle away.
"The cucumbers, tea,
  And sour qwass-where are they then?"
At once they appear!
The peasants unloosen
  Their waistbelts, and gather
Around the white napkin 420
  To hold a great banquet.
In joy, they embrace
  One another, and promise
That never again
  Will they beat one another
Without sound reflection,
  But settle their quarrels
In reason and honour
  As God has commanded;
That nought shall persuade them 430
To turn their steps homewards
  To kiss wives and children,
To see the old people,
  Until they have settled
For once and forever
  The subject of discord:
Until they've discovered
  The man who, in Russia,
Is happy and free.
They swear to each other 440
  To keep this, their promise,
And daybreak beholds them
  Embosomed in slumber
As deep and as dreamless
  As that of the dead.
PART I.

CHAPTER I.

THE POPE[7]

The broad sandy high-road
  With borders of birch-trees
Winds sadly and drearily
  Into the distance;
On either hand running
  Low hills and young cornfields,
Green pastures, and often-
  More often than any-
Lands sterile and barren.
And near to the rivers 10
  And ponds are the hamlets
And villages standing-
  The old and the new ones.
The forests and meadows
  And rivers of Russia
  Are lovely in springtime,
But O you spring cornfields,
  Your growth thin and scanty
Is painful to see.
  "'Twas not without meaning 20
That daily the snow fell
  Throughout the long winter,"
Said one to another
  The journeying peasants:-
"The spring has now come
  And the snow tells its story:
At first it is silent-
  'Tis silent in falling,
Lies silently sleeping,
  But when it is dying 30
Its voice is uplifted:
  The fields are all covered
With loud, rushing waters,
  No roads can be traversed
For bringing manure
  To the aid of the cornfields;
The season is late
  For the sweet month of May
Is already approaching."
  The peasant is saddened 40
At sight of the dirty
  And squalid old village;
But sadder the new ones:
  The new huts are pretty,
But they are the token
  Of heartbreaking ruin.[8]
As morning sets in
  They begin to meet people,
But mostly small people:
  Their brethren, the peasants, 50
And soldiers and waggoners,
  Workmen and beggars.
The soldiers and beggars
  They pass without speaking.
Not asking if happy
  Or grievous their lot:
The soldier, we know,
  Shaves his beard with a gimlet,
Has nothing but smoke
  In the winter to warm him,- 60
What joy can be his?
As evening is falling
  Appears on the high-road
A pope in his cart.
  The peasants uncover
Their heads, and draw up
  In a line on the roadway,
Thus barring the passage
  In front of the gelding.
  The pope raised his head, 70
Looked inquiringly at them.
  "Fear not, we won't harm you,"
Luka said in answer.
  (Luka was thick-bearded,
Was heavy and stolid,
  Was obstinate, stupid,
And talkative too;
  He was like to the windmill
Which differs in one thing
  Alone from an eagle: 80
No matter how boldly
  It waves its broad pinions
It rises no higher.)
  "We, orthodox peasants,
From District 'Most Wretched,'
  From Province 'Hard Battered,'
From 'Destitute' Parish,
  From neighbouring hamlets,
'Patched,' 'Barefoot,' and 'Shabby,'
  'Bleak,' 'Burnt-Out,' and 'Hungry,' 90
From 'Harvestless' also,
  Are striving to settle
A thing of importance;
A trouble torments us,
  It draws us away
From our wives and our children,
  Away from our work,
Kills our appetites too.
  Pray, give us your promise
To answer us truly, 100
  Consulting your conscience
And searching your knowledge,
Not feigning nor mocking
  The question we put you.
If not, we will go
  Further on."
  "I will promise
If you will but put me
  A serious question
To answer it gravely, 110
  With truth and with reason,
Not feigning nor mocking,
  Amen!"
  "We are grateful,
And this is our story:
  We all had set out
On particular errands,
  And met in the roadway.
Then one asked another:
Who is he,-the man 120
  Free and happy in Russia?
And I said, 'The pope,'
  And Roman, 'The Pomyeshchick,'
And Prov said, 'The Tsar,'
  And Demyan, 'The official';
'The round-bellied merchant,'
  Said both brothers Goobin,
Mitrodor and Ivan;
  Pakhom said, 'His Lordship,
The Tsar's Chief Adviser.' 130
  "Like bulls are the peasants;
Once folly is in them
  You cannot dislodge it
Although you should beat them
  With stout wooden cudgels,
They stick to their folly
  And nothing can move them.
We argued and argued,
  While arguing quarrelled,
While quarrelling fought, 140
  Till at last we decided
That never again
  Would we turn our steps homeward
To kiss wives and children,
  To see the old people,
Until we have found
  The reply to our question,
Until we've discovered
  For once and forever
The man who, in Russia, 150
  Is happy and free.
Then say, in God's truth,
  Is the pope's life a sweet one?
Would you, honoured father,
  Proclaim yourself happy?"
The pope in his cart
  Cast his eyes on the roadway,
Fell thoughtful and answered:
  "Then, Christians, come, hear me:
I will not complain 160
  Of the cross that I carry,
But bear it in silence.
  I'll tell you my story,
And you try to follow
  As well as you can."
"Begin."

  "But first tell me
The gifts you consider
  As true earthly welfare;
Peace, honour, and riches,- 170
  Is that so, my children?"
They answer, "It is so."

  "And now let us see, friends,
What peace does the pope get?
  In truth, then, I ought
To begin from my childhood,
  For how does the son
Of the pope gain his learning,
  And what is the price
That he pays for the priesthood? 180
  'Tis best to be silent." [9]
* * * * *

  "Our roadways are poor
And our parishes large,
  And the sick and the dying,
The new-born that call us,
  Do not choose their season:
In harvest and hay-time,
  In dark nights of autumn,
Through frosts in the winter,
Through floods in the springtime, 190
  Go-where they may call you.
You go without murmur,
  If only the body
Need suffer alone!
  But no,-every moment
The heart's deepest feelings
  Are strained and tormented.
Believe me, my children,
  Some things on this earth
One can never get used to: 200
  No heart there exists
That can bear without anguish
  The rattle of death,
The lament for the lost one,
  The sorrow of orphans,
Amen! Now you see, friends,
  The peace that the pope gets."
Not long did the peasants
  Stand thinking. They waited
To let the pope rest, 210
  Then enquired with a bow:
"And what more will you tell us?"
  "Well, now let us see
If the pope is much honoured;
  And that, O my friends,
Is a delicate question-
  I fear to offend you...
But answer me, Christians,
  Whom call you, 'The cursed
Stallion breed?' Can you tell me?"
  The peasants stand silent 221
In painful confusion;
  The pope, too, is silent.
"Who is it you tremble
  To meet in the roadway[10]
For fear of misfortune?"
  The peasants stand shuffling
Their feet in confusion.
  "Of whom do you make
Little scandalous stories? 230
  Of whom do you sing
Rhymes and songs most indecent?
  The pope's honoured wife,
And his innocent daughters,
  Come, how do you treat them?
At whom do you shout
  Ho, ho, ho, in derision
When once you are past him?"
The peasants cast downwards
  Their eyes and keep silent. 240
The pope too is silent.
  The peasants stand musing;
The pope fans his face
  With his hat, high and broad-rimmed,
And looks at the heavens...
  The cloudlets in springtime
Play round the great sun
  Like small grandchildren frisking
Around a hale grandsire,
  And now, on his right side 250
A bright little cloud
  Has grown suddenly dismal,
Begins to shed tears.
  The grey thread is hanging
In rows to the earth,
  While the red sun is laughing
And beaming upon it
  Through torn fleecy clouds,
Like a merry young girl
  Peeping out from the corn. 260
The cloud has moved nearer,
  The rain begins here,
And the pope puts his hat on.
  But on the sun's right side
The joy and the brightness
Again are established.
  The rain is now ceasing...
It stops altogether,
  And God's wondrous miracle,
Long golden sunbeams, 270
  Are streaming from Heaven
In radiant splendour.
* * * * *

  "It isn't our own fault;
It comes from our parents,"
  Say, after long silence,
The two brothers Goobin.
  The others approve him:
"It isn't our own fault,
  It comes from our parents."
The pope said, "So be it! 280
  But pardon me, Christians,
It is not my meaning
  To censure my neighbours;
I spoke but desiring
  To tell you the truth.
You see how the pope
  Is revered by the peasants;
The gentry-"
  "Pass over them,
Father-we know them." 290
  "Then let us consider
From whence the pope's riches.
  In times not far distant
The great Russian Empire
  Was filled with estates
Of wealthy Pomyeshchicks.[11]
  They lived and increased,
And they let us live too.
  What weddings were feasted!
What numbers and numbers 300
  Of children were born
In each rich, merry life-time!
  Although they were haughty
And often oppressive,
  What liberal masters!
They never deserted
  The parish, they married,
Were baptized within it,
  To us they confessed,
And by us they were buried. 310
  And if a Pomyeshchick
Should chance for some reason
  To live in a city,
He cherished one longing,
  To die in his birthplace;
But did the Lord will it
  That he should die suddenly
Far from the village,
  An order was found
In his papers, most surely, 320
  That he should be buried
At home with his fathers.
  Then see-the black car
With the six mourning horses,-
  The heirs are conveying
The dead to the graveyard;
  And think-what a lift
For the pope, and what feasting
  All over the village!
But now that is ended, 330
  Pomyeshchicks are scattered
Like Jews over Russia
  And all foreign countries.
  They seek not the honour
Of lying with fathers
  And mothers together.
How many estates
  Have passed into the pockets
Of rich speculators!
  O you, bones so pampered 340
Of great Russian gentry,
  Where are you not buried,
What far foreign graveyard
  Do you not repose in?
  "Myself from dissenters[12]
(A source of pope's income)
  I never take money,
I've never transgressed,
  For I never had need to;
Because in my parish 350
  Two-thirds of the people
Are Orthodox churchmen.
  But districts there are
Where the whole population
  Consists of dissenters-
Then how can the pope live?
  "But all in this world
Is subjected to changes:
  The laws which in old days
Applied to dissenters 360
  Have now become milder;
And that in itself
  Is a check to pope's income.
I've said the Pomyeshchicks
Are gone, and no longer
  They seek to return
To the home of their childhood;
  And then of their ladies
(Rich, pious old women),
  How many have left us 370
To live near the convents!
  And nobody now
  Gives the pope a new cassock
Or church-work embroidered.
  He lives on the peasants,
Collects their brass farthings,
  Their cakes on the feast-days,
  At Easter their eggs.
The peasants are needy
  Or they would give freely- 380
Themselves they have nothing;
  And who can take gladly
The peasant's last farthing?
  "Their lands are so poor,
They are sand, moss, or boggy,
  Their cattle half-famished,
Their crops yield but twofold;
  And should Mother Earth
Chance at times to be kinder,
That too is misfortune: 390
  The market is crowded,
  They sell for a trifle
To pay off the taxes.
  Again comes a bad crop--
Then pay for your bread
  Three times higher than ever,
And sell all your cattle!
  Now, pray to God, Christians,
For this year again
  A great misery threatens: 400
We ought to have sown
  For a long time already;
But look you-the fields
  Are all deluged and useless...
O God, have Thou pity
  And send a round[13] rainbow
To shine in Thy heavens!"
  Then taking his hat off
He crossed himself thrice,
  And the peasants did likewise.
"Our village is poor 411
  And the people are sickly,
The women are sad
  And are scantily nourished,
But pious and laborious;
  God give them courage!
Like slaves do they toil;
  'Tis hard to lay hands
On the fruits of such labour.
  "At times you are sent for 420
To pray by the dying,
  But Death is not really
The awful thing present,
  But rather the living-
The family losing
  Their only support.
You pray by the dead.
  Words of comfort you utter,
To calm the bereaved ones;
  And then the old mother 430
Comes tottering towards you,
  And stretching her bony
And toil-blistered hand out;
  You feel your heart sicken,
For there in the palm
  Lie the precious brass farthings!
Of course it is only
  The price of your praying.
You take it, because
  It is what you must live on; 440
Your words of condolence
  Are frozen, and blindly,
Like one deep insulted,
  You make your way homeward.
Amen..."
* * * * *

  The pope finished
His speech, and touched lightly
  The back of the gelding.
The peasants make way,
  And they bow to him deeply. 450
  The cart moves on slowly,
Then six of the comrades
  As though by agreement
Attack poor Luka
  With indignant reproaches.
"Now, what have you got?-
  You great obstinate blockhead,
You log of the village!
  You too must needs argue;
Pray what did you tell us? 460
  'The popes live like princes,
The lords of the belfry,
  Their palaces rising
As high as the heavens,
  Their bells set a-chiming
All over God's world.
  "'Three years,' you declared,
'Did I work as pope's servant.
  It wasn't a life-
'Twas a strawberry, brethren; 470
  Pope's kasha[14] is made
And served up with fresh butter.
  Pope's stchee[14] made with fish,
And pope's pie stuffed to bursting;
  The pope's wife is fat too,
  And white the pope's daughter,
His horse like a barrel,
  His bees are all swollen
And booming like church bells.'
  "Well, there's your pope's life,- 480
There's your 'strawberry,' boaster!
  For that you've been shouting
And making us quarrel,
  You limb of the Devil!
Pray is it because
  Of your beard like a shovel
You think you're so clever?
  If so, let me tell you
The goat walked in Eden
  With just such another 490
Before Father Adam,
  And yet down to our time
The goat is considered
  The greatest of duffers!"
The culprit was silent,
  Afraid of a beating;
And he would have got it
  Had not the pope's face,
Turning sadly upon them,
  Looked over a hedge 500
At a rise in the road.
CHAPTER II

THE VILLAGE FAIR

  No wonder the peasants
Dislike a wet spring-tide:
  The peasant needs greatly
A spring warm and early.
  This year, though he howl
Like a wolf, I'm afraid
  That the sun will not gladden
The earth with his brightness.
  The clouds wander heavily,
Dropping the rain down 10
  Like cows with full udders.
The snow has departed,
  Yet no blade of grass,
Not a tiny green leaflet,
  Is seen in the meadows.
The earth has not ventured
  To don its new mantle
  Of brightest green velvet,
But lies sad and bare
  Like a corpse without grave-clothes
Beneath the dull heavens. 21
  One pities the peasant;
Still more, though, his cattle:
  For when they have eaten
The scanty reserves
  Which remain from the winter,
Their master will drive them
  To graze in the meadows,
And what will they find there
  But bare, inky blackness? 30
Nor settled the weather
  Until it was nearing
The feast of St. Nichol,
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