Classic Poem

“L OOK at the soldier's kabaty,
Mother, mother mine!
Is it not red—like blood—to see,
Or is it like the cranberry?
Knowest thou me?”

“I know thee, I would always know
My only son.
Young as the cranberries that grow,
Bright as the reddest one!”

“The cranberry in that deep wood,
Mother, mother mine!
For me, for me it does not bloom.
High has my flower risen—a tomb
Built for thy son.

“O mother, there it stands—my mate!…
To-morrow, mother mine,
In silken grass and on green lawn
So very early, in the dawn,
I will bow low.

“To Hetman young myself I'll bow:
‘Young Hetman! Sir!
Wilt bless me, me, the young Cossack?’”

“I'll bless thee, where the cannons black
Full loudly roar!
There will I bless thee, O my son!”

“My Hetman, Hetman mine!
I follow, and I die, with thee;
I follow, dying—let me be…
Mother, don't cry!”