NIKITIN.

HUNGER

Hark!  Who knocks with bony fingers
  On the hut’s small window latch? 
Hark!  Who pulls away the stubble
  Rustling, from the roofing thatch?

From the fields it is not Vintage,
  Drunk and weary wavers home—­
’Tis a spectre, meagre, gloomy,
  As a nightmare dread become.

All subduing, all destroying,
  In his ragged garment poor,
Drags he,—­on his crutches limping—­
  Noiseless reeling through the door.

Like the usurer hard hearted,
  For his last kopek in quest,
Coffer, cupboard both he opens,
  Breaks the lock of case and chest.

Lordly rules he, late and early—­
  In the granary; when gone
Every kernel of provision,
  The last cattle he will pawn.

From the land unto the cellar,
  Clean the peasant’s hut he keeps,
With a coarse and clumsy besom
  Every tiny crumb he sweeps.

On the village highway also
  Works and wins he over all,
From the threshing floor to stable—­
  From the sheepfold to the stall.

His approaching, sorrow follows—­
  On his coming, follows need,
On his greeting, follows sickness,
  On his hand-shake Death succeeds!

So he seeks in all directions,
  East and West and South and North—­
And in empty field embraces
  Thankfully his friend the Frost!

FOFANOW.

FADED THE FOOTSTEP OF SPRING FROM OUR GARDEN

Faded the footstep of Spring from our garden,
  Sighing the Autumn wind vanishing goes,
Behold now, how close to us dreams are approaching—­
  Love, it is time for repose!

List, how the leafage in raindrops all tearful
  Trembles and wails for a sorry defeat,—­
All that was ours, that we once proudly boasted,
  All, was a glittering cheat.

Dark as a funeral pall hanging over,
  Fluttering clouds in their mockery close;
Sighing within us is silenced our singing—­
  Love, it is time for repose.

Deceitful from heaven’s fair emerald rainbow,
  Soft borrowed glamour of moonbeams doth woo;
Since even you to my faith were disloyal,
  Love, my false Springtime were you!

Soon will the sunbeams last radiant shining
  Trackless be hurled where the Autumn wind blows,
Slumber enmeshes my soul and the darkness—­
  Love, it is time for repose!

FOFANOW.

THE BEGGAR

There stood a beggar asking alms
  By the cathedral gate,
His face bore torture marks of life—­
  Pale, tired, blind—­like fate.

Thin, tired, pale and blind he begged
  A crust of bread alone,
And some one pausing, placed within
  His outstretched hand—­a stone.

And even so I asked your love,
  I brought my dreams, my life—­the while
Unto my passion you replied
  Only with your cold smile!