IN A RUSSIAN CORNFIELD
From a Poem by H. N. BYALIK, Translated by HELENA FRANK.
No, not like a bird that escapes from its cage with a song, And not like a lion that leaps from the gloom of its lair, But more like a hound men have chained and tormented for long. I slink from their sight, and depressed to the fields I repair. . .
The wind is laid, all's still—the heavy, golden ears Stand bent and sunk in a dream as they stood ere the wind came by, But other winds in my breast have kindled a smouldering fire, And up through the flying ash the flame burns fierce and high.
I stand and gaze at the field, the beautiful, mirthful, rustling—I feel how poor I am, there's a thought that eats at my brain;Not I brake up the soil and strowed the seed in the furrows,Not I, not I shall garner the wealth of the ripened grain!
Not mine was the prayer to God for the warm and gentle showers. Not mine the drops of sweat that fell from the toiler's brow, Not mine the joy of heart while the ears grew daily fuller, Not mine, not mine the song when they put in the sickle now!
And yet, And yet, for the sake of the land of our fathers Where, filled with a hope new-born, My brothers are binding their sheaves now with gladness, I love you, O fields of the corn!