In the family platter,
First blessing its contents.
His veins have been thawed
By a streamlet of vodka,
His words flow like water.
The hut is as silent
As death. The old father
Was mending the laputs, 170
But now he has dropped them.

The song of the shuttle
Is hushed, and the woman
Who sits at the wheel
Is engrossed in the story.
The daughter, Yevgenka,
Her plump little finger
Has pricked with a needle.
The blood has dried up,
But she notices nothing; 180
Her sewing has fallen,
Her eyes are distended,
Her arms hanging limp.
The children, in bed
On the sleeping-planks, listen,
Their heads hanging down.
They lie on their stomachs
Like snug little seals
Upon Archangel ice-blocks.
Their hair, like a curtain, 190
Is hiding their faces: