Classic Poem

All the oak forest is murmuring, murmuring:
Thick veils of fog o'er the fields and wide meadows cling.

" Go away, my son, from me —
May the raiding Turk take thee! "

" Mother, well the Sultan knows
Thy brave son. (This witness shows.)

" For he pays me from the mine
Tribute — gold and silver fine! "

" Go away, my son, from me —
May Litva soon capture thee! "

" Litva knows me too — I feed
From her tribute, wine and mead. "

" Go away, my son, from me,
May the Tartars soon take thee! "

" Those wild Hordes take, in much fear,
Other roads when I draw near! "

" Go away, my son, from me —
Moscow! Let the Tzar take thee! "

" But the Tzar likes me so well,
With him I've been asked to dwell! "

" Ah, my son, come home instead.
Let me, dear one, wash thy head. "

" Nay, my mother, nay. With rain
Washing it I'll not complain.

" Winds will dry my dripping hair;
Teren-bush will comb it fair. "

All the deebrova is murmuring, murmuring —
Leaden clouds over heaven lowering masses fling.

" Farewell! " the sisters cry — for he must go with speed.
She who is eldest born leads out his splendid steed.

And then the second-born armour brings out to him:
Youngest of all entreats — asks with her eyes tear-dim:

" When, O my brother dear, comest thou back to us? "
" Ah, sister! Of the sand take thou a handful thus. . . .

" Sow on a rock. Each dawn water it with thy tears.
That day the sand springs up — thy brother lost appears! "