OTHER POEMS

Taras Shevchenko

The sun sets; mountains fadeInto the darkness; the bird’s note is stilled.The fields grow silent, for the peasant nowRejoicing, dreams of rest.And I look with desire,Longing desire—to an orchard dark,The Orchard of Ukraine.And I pour forth my thoughtsAs though my heart were resting.Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still—And in the shadowy blue appears a star ...O Star! My Star!... And the tears fall ...Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine?Not for the people and not for the praiseThese verses now are written. Nay, I writeBut for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease.Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far awayThe words flow in and spread the paper o’er;Laughing and crying as the children doThey gladden my poor soul, uncomforted,Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them,With them would always stay. They are my own.As a rich father loves his little ones,So am I glad and merry with my own.Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise,That He lets not my children fall asleepIn this so far-off land, but says, “Run home,And tell the others in the dear UkraineHow bitter ’twas to live in such a world!”

The sun sets; mountains fadeInto the darkness; the bird’s note is stilled.The fields grow silent, for the peasant nowRejoicing, dreams of rest.

The sun sets; mountains fade

Into the darkness; the bird’s note is stilled.

The fields grow silent, for the peasant now

Rejoicing, dreams of rest.

And I look with desire,Longing desire—to an orchard dark,The Orchard of Ukraine.And I pour forth my thoughtsAs though my heart were resting.

And I look with desire,

Longing desire—to an orchard dark,

The Orchard of Ukraine.

And I pour forth my thoughts

As though my heart were resting.

Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still—And in the shadowy blue appears a star ...O Star! My Star!... And the tears fall ...Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine?

Fields, forest, mountains, darkening still—

And in the shadowy blue appears a star ...

O Star! My Star!... And the tears fall ...

Hast thou then also risen in Ukraine?

Not for the people and not for the praiseThese verses now are written. Nay, I writeBut for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease.Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far awayThe words flow in and spread the paper o’er;Laughing and crying as the children doThey gladden my poor soul, uncomforted,Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them,With them would always stay. They are my own.As a rich father loves his little ones,So am I glad and merry with my own.Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise,That He lets not my children fall asleepIn this so far-off land, but says, “Run home,And tell the others in the dear UkraineHow bitter ’twas to live in such a world!”

Not for the people and not for the praise

These verses now are written. Nay, I write

But for myself, my brothers, for heart’s ease.

Lo, from beyond the Dnieper, as from far away

The words flow in and spread the paper o’er;

Laughing and crying as the children do

They gladden my poor soul, uncomforted,

Raw, inconsolable—I joy in them,

With them would always stay. They are my own.

As a rich father loves his little ones,

So am I glad and merry with my own.

Yea, I rejoice; and the good God I praise,

That He lets not my children fall asleep

In this so far-off land, but says, “Run home,

And tell the others in the dear Ukraine

How bitter ’twas to live in such a world!”

Shevchenko

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,It dances through the fields.Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,And fells her to the ground.Why has she a slim, tall trunk?Why are her broad leaves green?The field around is blue,And wide as the sea....When the Tchumak passesHe looks and bows his head.Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn,His pipe plays on the hill;He looks around.Sorrow is in his heart—no shrub is near—Only a poplar lone,Lone as an orphan stands,Fades in an alien land.Who nurtured this slender and yielding bodyTo languish on the steppes?Wait, maidens, I will tell ye!Listen:With a CossackA maiden fell in love,Loved him, but held him not.He departed and perished.If she had knownThat he would leave herShe would not have loved him:If she had knownThat he would dieShe would not have let him go:If she had known,She would not have gone for water late at even,She would not have lingeredWith her sweetheartUnder the willow treeIf she had known!...But it is dangerousTo know the future—What misfortune will meet us,Maidens, seek not to know,Ask not of your fate.The heart knows whom to love.Let it wither, little by little,Until it is buried,BecauseNot for long are the bright eyesOf the black-browed girl.Girls, O Girls!Not for long the rosy cheeks!Only till noon—Then they will fade, will shrivel,The black brows will grow pale....Girls! Love ye or like as your heart says.The nightingale is trillingIn the wood, on the cranberry.Walking in the meadowThe Cossack sings—He sings until Tchornobriva[69]Comes out of the hut,And he asks her:“Did your mother hurt you?”Close together they stand, they embrace,The nightingale sings,And, hearing it, they depart,Joyful at heart.Nobody sees them, none will ask her,“Where wast thou, what didst thou do?”She herself knows. She loved,But her heart was sad with foreboding,All unspoken, untold....Abandoned,Day and night she called,Cooing like a mournful dove,But no one heard.The nightingale does not singIn the wood over the water:The black-browed girl sang of oldUnder a willow tree—Now she does not sing.As an orphan, she hates the white world.Without her sweetheart,Like an alien, her mother,Like a stranger, her father.Without her sweetheartThe sun shinesAs an enemy loves.Without her loverAll is—a grave.And her heart beats on.One year passed, and another,The Cossack did not return.· · · · ·“I will not marry him, Mother!I do not wish to ‘live like a lady,’Lower me in a grave with those Towels![70]Better to lie in a coffin than to see his face.”· · · · ·“O fortune-teller, how long will I live in this worldWithout my sweetheart?Granny-Pigeon,My Heart, Nenka, tell me the truth,Is my lover alive and in health?Does he love me,Or forget and abandon me?Tell me, where is my lover?Art thou ready to fly to the end of the world,Granny-Pigeon?Tell, if thou knowest,For my Mother marries me to an old, rich man....But, O Grey One,Never will my heart cease loving that other!I would drown myselfBut so I might lose my soul.O my ‘Ptashka!’[71]Do something—let me not go home.It is hard, hard for me—There, at home, the Old One waitsWith the marriage brokers.Tell me my fortune.”“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while,But do my will. Long ago I, too,Was a marriageable maiden—I know that woe, but it has passed,And I have learned to help.I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter,Two years ago. Then I prepared for theeThat zilie on the shelf.Now take the magic herb,And to the clear spring go.Ere cock-crow wash thy face,Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass.Run to the grave, nor look thou back—Some one behind may cry, but give no heed.Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell;Stay there until the moonIs crescent in mid-sky,Then drink again.If he come not,Then drink once more.After the first draught thou wilt lookThe maid thou wast:After the second, a horse will stamp its foot.If then thy Cossack livesBe sure he’ll come;But after the third draught,O daughter mine,Ask not what shall befall!But hearken!Cross not thyselfElse naught of this will be.Now go! And look uponThy beauty of last year!”· · · · ·“To go or not to go?No, I will not go home!”She went and bathed herself,And drank the zilie wine,And she was changed;Second and third time drank,And drowsiness was hers.She sang on the wide steppes:“Float, float, O Swan,Upon the bluish sea!Grow tall, Topolia,Reach higher, higher!Slender and tall, aspireUp to the clouds.Ask God: Will waiting thenAt all avail?Waiting for him, my mate?“Grow, grow tall!Look out o’er the blue sea.Good luck and bad luck lieOn either side.And there, somewhere,My lover roams the fields.I weep, my years pass byWaiting for him.Say to him, O my heart, Topolia!That people laugh at me.Tell him that I shall dieIf he do not come soon.Mother herselfWishes to bury me....Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not,Weep with the dew at sundown,Though none may know—Taller and taller grow,Higher and higher.Float, float, O Swan,Upon the bluish sea.”Such a song TchornobrivaSang on the steppes.O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia!She did not return home;She did not wait for him.There slim and tallShe beckons to the clouds.The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,It dances through the fields.Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,And fells her to the ground.

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,It dances through the fields.Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,And fells her to the ground.

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,

It dances through the fields.

Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,

And fells her to the ground.

Why has she a slim, tall trunk?Why are her broad leaves green?The field around is blue,And wide as the sea....When the Tchumak passesHe looks and bows his head.Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn,His pipe plays on the hill;He looks around.Sorrow is in his heart—no shrub is near—Only a poplar lone,Lone as an orphan stands,Fades in an alien land.

Why has she a slim, tall trunk?

Why are her broad leaves green?

The field around is blue,

And wide as the sea....

When the Tchumak passes

He looks and bows his head.

Tchabàn, the shepherd, in the dawn,

His pipe plays on the hill;

He looks around.

Sorrow is in his heart—no shrub is near—

Only a poplar lone,

Lone as an orphan stands,

Fades in an alien land.

Who nurtured this slender and yielding bodyTo languish on the steppes?Wait, maidens, I will tell ye!Listen:

Who nurtured this slender and yielding body

To languish on the steppes?

Wait, maidens, I will tell ye!

Listen:

With a CossackA maiden fell in love,Loved him, but held him not.He departed and perished.

With a Cossack

A maiden fell in love,

Loved him, but held him not.

He departed and perished.

If she had knownThat he would leave herShe would not have loved him:

If she had known

That he would leave her

She would not have loved him:

If she had knownThat he would dieShe would not have let him go:

If she had known

That he would die

She would not have let him go:

If she had known,She would not have gone for water late at even,She would not have lingeredWith her sweetheartUnder the willow treeIf she had known!...

If she had known,

She would not have gone for water late at even,

She would not have lingered

With her sweetheart

Under the willow tree

If she had known!...

But it is dangerousTo know the future—What misfortune will meet us,Maidens, seek not to know,Ask not of your fate.The heart knows whom to love.Let it wither, little by little,Until it is buried,BecauseNot for long are the bright eyesOf the black-browed girl.

But it is dangerous

To know the future—

What misfortune will meet us,

Maidens, seek not to know,

Ask not of your fate.

The heart knows whom to love.

Let it wither, little by little,

Until it is buried,

Because

Not for long are the bright eyes

Of the black-browed girl.

Girls, O Girls!Not for long the rosy cheeks!Only till noon—Then they will fade, will shrivel,The black brows will grow pale....Girls! Love ye or like as your heart says.

Girls, O Girls!

Not for long the rosy cheeks!

Only till noon—

Then they will fade, will shrivel,

The black brows will grow pale....

Girls! Love ye or like as your heart says.

The nightingale is trillingIn the wood, on the cranberry.Walking in the meadowThe Cossack sings—He sings until Tchornobriva[69]Comes out of the hut,And he asks her:“Did your mother hurt you?”Close together they stand, they embrace,The nightingale sings,And, hearing it, they depart,Joyful at heart.Nobody sees them, none will ask her,“Where wast thou, what didst thou do?”She herself knows. She loved,But her heart was sad with foreboding,All unspoken, untold....Abandoned,Day and night she called,Cooing like a mournful dove,But no one heard.

The nightingale is trilling

In the wood, on the cranberry.

Walking in the meadow

The Cossack sings—

He sings until Tchornobriva[69]

Comes out of the hut,

And he asks her:

“Did your mother hurt you?”

Close together they stand, they embrace,

The nightingale sings,

And, hearing it, they depart,

Joyful at heart.

Nobody sees them, none will ask her,

“Where wast thou, what didst thou do?”

She herself knows. She loved,

But her heart was sad with foreboding,

All unspoken, untold....

Abandoned,

Day and night she called,

Cooing like a mournful dove,

But no one heard.

The nightingale does not singIn the wood over the water:The black-browed girl sang of oldUnder a willow tree—Now she does not sing.As an orphan, she hates the white world.Without her sweetheart,Like an alien, her mother,Like a stranger, her father.Without her sweetheartThe sun shinesAs an enemy loves.Without her loverAll is—a grave.And her heart beats on.One year passed, and another,The Cossack did not return.

The nightingale does not sing

In the wood over the water:

The black-browed girl sang of old

Under a willow tree—

Now she does not sing.

As an orphan, she hates the white world.

Without her sweetheart,

Like an alien, her mother,

Like a stranger, her father.

Without her sweetheart

The sun shines

As an enemy loves.

Without her lover

All is—a grave.

And her heart beats on.

One year passed, and another,

The Cossack did not return.

· · · · ·

“I will not marry him, Mother!I do not wish to ‘live like a lady,’Lower me in a grave with those Towels![70]Better to lie in a coffin than to see his face.”

“I will not marry him, Mother!

I do not wish to ‘live like a lady,’

Lower me in a grave with those Towels![70]

Better to lie in a coffin than to see his face.”

· · · · ·

“O fortune-teller, how long will I live in this worldWithout my sweetheart?Granny-Pigeon,My Heart, Nenka, tell me the truth,Is my lover alive and in health?Does he love me,Or forget and abandon me?Tell me, where is my lover?Art thou ready to fly to the end of the world,Granny-Pigeon?Tell, if thou knowest,For my Mother marries me to an old, rich man....But, O Grey One,Never will my heart cease loving that other!I would drown myselfBut so I might lose my soul.O my ‘Ptashka!’[71]Do something—let me not go home.It is hard, hard for me—There, at home, the Old One waitsWith the marriage brokers.Tell me my fortune.”

“O fortune-teller, how long will I live in this world

Without my sweetheart?

Granny-Pigeon,

My Heart, Nenka, tell me the truth,

Is my lover alive and in health?

Does he love me,

Or forget and abandon me?

Tell me, where is my lover?

Art thou ready to fly to the end of the world,

Granny-Pigeon?

Tell, if thou knowest,

For my Mother marries me to an old, rich man....

But, O Grey One,

Never will my heart cease loving that other!

I would drown myself

But so I might lose my soul.

O my ‘Ptashka!’[71]

Do something—let me not go home.

It is hard, hard for me—

There, at home, the Old One waits

With the marriage brokers.

Tell me my fortune.”

“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while,But do my will. Long ago I, too,Was a marriageable maiden—I know that woe, but it has passed,And I have learned to help.I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter,Two years ago. Then I prepared for theeThat zilie on the shelf.Now take the magic herb,And to the clear spring go.Ere cock-crow wash thy face,Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass.Run to the grave, nor look thou back—Some one behind may cry, but give no heed.Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell;Stay there until the moonIs crescent in mid-sky,Then drink again.If he come not,Then drink once more.After the first draught thou wilt lookThe maid thou wast:After the second, a horse will stamp its foot.If then thy Cossack livesBe sure he’ll come;But after the third draught,O daughter mine,Ask not what shall befall!But hearken!Cross not thyselfElse naught of this will be.Now go! And look uponThy beauty of last year!”

“So be it, Daughter. Tarry a while,

But do my will. Long ago I, too,

Was a marriageable maiden—

I know that woe, but it has passed,

And I have learned to help.

I knew thy fortune, my dear daughter,

Two years ago. Then I prepared for thee

That zilie on the shelf.

Now take the magic herb,

And to the clear spring go.

Ere cock-crow wash thy face,

Then drink this draught. Sorrow shall pass.

Run to the grave, nor look thou back—

Some one behind may cry, but give no heed.

Run to that spot where once thou saidst farewell;

Stay there until the moon

Is crescent in mid-sky,

Then drink again.

If he come not,

Then drink once more.

After the first draught thou wilt look

The maid thou wast:

After the second, a horse will stamp its foot.

If then thy Cossack lives

Be sure he’ll come;

But after the third draught,

O daughter mine,

Ask not what shall befall!

But hearken!

Cross not thyself

Else naught of this will be.

Now go! And look upon

Thy beauty of last year!”

· · · · ·

“To go or not to go?No, I will not go home!”She went and bathed herself,And drank the zilie wine,And she was changed;Second and third time drank,And drowsiness was hers.She sang on the wide steppes:“Float, float, O Swan,Upon the bluish sea!Grow tall, Topolia,Reach higher, higher!Slender and tall, aspireUp to the clouds.Ask God: Will waiting thenAt all avail?Waiting for him, my mate?

“To go or not to go?

No, I will not go home!”

She went and bathed herself,

And drank the zilie wine,

And she was changed;

Second and third time drank,

And drowsiness was hers.

She sang on the wide steppes:

“Float, float, O Swan,

Upon the bluish sea!

Grow tall, Topolia,

Reach higher, higher!

Slender and tall, aspire

Up to the clouds.

Ask God: Will waiting then

At all avail?

Waiting for him, my mate?

“Grow, grow tall!Look out o’er the blue sea.Good luck and bad luck lieOn either side.And there, somewhere,My lover roams the fields.I weep, my years pass byWaiting for him.Say to him, O my heart, Topolia!That people laugh at me.Tell him that I shall dieIf he do not come soon.Mother herselfWishes to bury me....Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not,Weep with the dew at sundown,Though none may know—Taller and taller grow,Higher and higher.Float, float, O Swan,Upon the bluish sea.”

“Grow, grow tall!

Look out o’er the blue sea.

Good luck and bad luck lie

On either side.

And there, somewhere,

My lover roams the fields.

I weep, my years pass by

Waiting for him.

Say to him, O my heart, Topolia!

That people laugh at me.

Tell him that I shall die

If he do not come soon.

Mother herself

Wishes to bury me....

Look far, Topolia, and, if he is not,

Weep with the dew at sundown,

Though none may know—

Taller and taller grow,

Higher and higher.

Float, float, O Swan,

Upon the bluish sea.”

Such a song TchornobrivaSang on the steppes.O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia!She did not return home;She did not wait for him.There slim and tallShe beckons to the clouds.The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,It dances through the fields.Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,And fells her to the ground.

Such a song Tchornobriva

Sang on the steppes.

O Zilie Miracle!—she is Topolia!

She did not return home;

She did not wait for him.

There slim and tall

She beckons to the clouds.

The wind blows through the oaks in the wood,

It dances through the fields.

Beside the high road it uproots Topolia,

And fells her to the ground.

Rudansky

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine!For I left there a sweet maiden.Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there—Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.There in Ukraine lies a valley,In the valley there’s a Khuta;In the hut there dwells a maiden—Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.There, O Wind, Hush and be silent!Rest above her face in quiet;Bow above her rosy face, thou;Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?Or is she awake, my pigeon?If she sleeps not, set her dreamingOf the one she loved, her dearest,Whom she swore she would forget not.But, O Wind, if she forget me,If she have another wooer....Die away in Ukraina—Come not back to me in exile!· · · · ·And the wind blows on through Ukraine ...My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ...And the wind fled into Ukraine,And it never turnèd backward.

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine!For I left there a sweet maiden.Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there—Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.

Blow, O Wind, unto my Ukraine!

For I left there a sweet maiden.

Yea, two dark-brown eyes I left there—

Blow, thou wind, from midnight onward.

There in Ukraine lies a valley,In the valley there’s a Khuta;In the hut there dwells a maiden—Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.

There in Ukraine lies a valley,

In the valley there’s a Khuta;

In the hut there dwells a maiden—

Little maiden, wild she-pigeon.

There, O Wind, Hush and be silent!Rest above her face in quiet;Bow above her rosy face, thou;Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?

There, O Wind, Hush and be silent!

Rest above her face in quiet;

Bow above her rosy face, thou;

Look: is she, my sweetheart, sleeping?

Or is she awake, my pigeon?If she sleeps not, set her dreamingOf the one she loved, her dearest,Whom she swore she would forget not.

Or is she awake, my pigeon?

If she sleeps not, set her dreaming

Of the one she loved, her dearest,

Whom she swore she would forget not.

But, O Wind, if she forget me,If she have another wooer....Die away in Ukraina—Come not back to me in exile!

But, O Wind, if she forget me,

If she have another wooer....

Die away in Ukraina—

Come not back to me in exile!

· · · · ·

And the wind blows on through Ukraine ...My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ...And the wind fled into Ukraine,And it never turnèd backward.

And the wind blows on through Ukraine ...

My heart weeps: ’tis full of sorrows ...

And the wind fled into Ukraine,

And it never turnèd backward.

THE RING

Vorobkievich

It 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 quietlyAs 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.

It 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.”

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 quietlyAs a flower under a leaf droops in a blazing sun.

“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.

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.

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