Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/147

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Mikhail Kuzmin


Dying is sweet
On the battle-field
In the hissing of arrows and spears,
When the trumpet sounds
And the sun of noon
Is shining,
Dying for country's glory
And hearing around you:
"Hero, farewell!"
Dying is sweet
For an old, venerable man
In the house
On the bed
Where your forebears were born,—where they died,
Surrounded by children
Grown men,
And hearing around you:
"Father, farewell!"
But sweeter,
Having spent the last penny,
Having sold the last mill
For a woman
Who the next day is forgotten,
Having come
From a gay promenade
To the sold, dismantled mansion
To sup,