Poetry quotes

“Once on a time the Hetmans ruled, It comes not back again; In olden days we masters were This never comes again. These glories of old Cossack lore Shall be forgotten nevermore.

Ukraine, Ukraine! Mother mine. Mother mine!

When I remember thee How mournful should I be.

With a Cossack A maiden fell in love, Loved him, but held him not. He departed and perished.

If she had known That he would leave her She would not have loved him:

If she had known That he would die She would not have let him go:

If she had known, She would not have gone for water late at even, She would not have lingered With her sweetheart Under the willow tree If she had known! …

But it is dangerous To know the future⁠—

What misfortune will meet us, Maidens, seek not to know, Ask not of your fate. The heart knows whom to love. Let it wither, little by little, Until it is buried, Because Not for long are the bright eyes Of the black-browed girl.

The black-browed girl sang of old Under a willow tree— Now she does not sing. As an orphan, she hates the white world. Without her sweetheart, Like an alien, her mother, Like a stranger, her father.

Without her sweetheart The sun shines As an enemy loves.

Without her lover All is—a grave. And her heart beats on. One year passed, and another, The Cossack did not return.

“No, no, it’s needful to know, It’s needful, my daughter, to count one’s wage. This you must learn, count what you earn. This is the proverb—

Who counts not his money Hasn’t got any.

But, child, how will this do? You don’t know us, We don’t know you. You’ll stay with us a few days, Get acquainted with our ways; We’ll see you day by day, Bye and bye we’ll talk of pay. Is it so, daughter?”

Each morning Mark spreads out his hands To the Servant as she stands;

Accepts, unknowing, a mother’s care. Only to grow is his affair.

Meantime many a year has rolled, Many waters to the sea have flowed, Trouble to the home has come, Many a tear down the cheek has run. Poor old ’Stasia in earth they laid. Hardly old Trophim’ from death they saved.

She ceased to speak. A sudden faintness Mark did take: It seemed the earth itself did shake. He roused— and to his mother crept, But the mother forever slept.

Beyond the hills are mightier hills, Cloud mountains o’er them rise,

Red, red have flowed their streams and rills, They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

Wash yourselves— The divine likeness in you defile not with slime. Befool not your children that they were born to the world to be lordlings. The eyes of men untaught see deep, deep into your soul.

Poor things they may be, yet they know the ass in the lion’s skin.

And they will judge you, the foolish will pronounce the doom of the wise.

But with whose blood was the land sprinkled that grew the potatoes? Oh, that’s a trifle; so long as it’s good for the garden. Very proud you are that we once destroyed Poland. Very true indeed:

Poland fell, but fell on top of us.

So your fathers shed their blood for Moscow and for Warsaw, And left to you, their sons their fetters and their glory.

To study then, my brothers, Think and read, Learn from the foreigner Despise not your own.

Who forgets his mother Him God will punish.

Foreigners will despise him Nor admit him to their homes; His children shall as strangers be Nor shall he find happiness on earth. I weep when I remember the deeds of our fathers, deeds I can not forget. Heavy on my heart they lie;

autumn creeps Nearer; before mine eyes the light Fades out; my soul is blind and sleeps. Everything sleeps; and I ponder: Do I yet live, or do I wander, A dead thing, through my term of years, A void of laughter as of tears?

Come to me, my fate! Where art thou? Oh, I have no fate.

God, if Thou dost scorn to love me, Grant me but Thy hate!

And weep for me Making mention of me in its prayers. Well, as it will be so it will be. Perhaps ’twill swim Perhaps ’twill wade

Yet even if they crucify me for it I’ll still write my verses.

Memories of mine, Memories of home, Sole wealth of mine, Where’er I roam.

Grass and hills I’ll leave and fly. Unto throne of God I’ll go, There in heaven to pray on high, But, till then, no God I know.

Standing then about my grave, Make ye haste, your fetters tear!

Sprinkled with the foeman’s blood Then shall rise your freedom fair.

All the night the reaper reaps, Never stays his hands nor sleeps, Reaping endlessly; Whets his blade and passes on. …

Hush, and let him be.

Hush, he cares not how men writhe With naked hands against the scythe. Wouldst thou hide in field or town? Where thou art, there he will come; He will reap thee down.

I care no longer if the child Shall pray for me, or pass me by. One only thing I cannot bear: To know my land, that was beguiled Into a death-trap with a lie, Trampled and ruined and defiled …

Ah, but I care, dear God; I care!

Oh my lofty hills— Yet not so lofty But beautiful ye are. Sky-blue in the distance; Older than old Pereyaslav, Or the tombs of Vebla, Like those clouds that rest Beyond the Dnieper.

No paradise I call thee, Little cottage in the wood, With the water pure beside thee Close by the village rude! There my mother bore me, Singing she tended me; My child’s heart drank in her pain.

Cottage in the shady dell, Heaven outside, inside hell;

But slavery there, with labor weary, Nor time for prayer in life so dreary.

Cry not for Spring, it will not come. It will not enter at thy door, Nor make thy garden green once more, Nor cheer with hope thy withered age, Nor loose thy spirit from her cage … Sit still, sit still! Thy life is spent;

Nought art thou, be with nought content.