Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/63

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Alexey K. Tolstoy


Oh, the ricks, the ricks,
In the meadows lying,
The eye cannot count
You, for all its trying.

Oh, the ricks, the ricks,
In the green morasses,
What do you guard:
You heaped, heavy masses?

Pray, behold us, good sir:
We were once bright flowers;
But the sharp scythe falls
And the whole field cowers.

We were littered here,
All mown down and shattered,
On the meadowland
From each other scattered.

We have no defense:
Evil guests come clawing—
And upon our crests
Perch the black crows, cawing.

On our heads they perch,
The starred heavens dimming.
Here the jackdaws flock,
Their foul hutches trimming.