My pipe and song alway.

If one must bitter weep--
No man will see his tears,
If sadly bowed his head--
None save the partridge jeers.

If weary one, or not,
What matters anything?
Let him toss back his locks
And playful laugh and sing!

And if one die,--the grave
Will warm his hands and feet!
Dost to my song respond?
Nay? Then it is complete.

NIKITIN.




THE SPADE IS DEEP DIGGING A GRAVE IN THE MOULD

The spade is deep digging a grave in the mould....
O Life,--so o'erflowing with sorrows untold,
My life, so homeless and lonely and weary,
Life, as an Autumn night silent and dreary--
Bitter in truth is thy fate 'neath the sky,
And as a fire of the field wilt thou die!