Ivan Bunin (b. 1870)

IN the valley the birches are bored.

On the meadows, fog billows and weighs.

Sodden, with horse-dung floored,

The highroad blackens in haze.

Rich on the steppe’s sleepy air,

The odor of freshly-baked bread.

Bent to their packs, slowly fare

Two beggars to look for a bed.

Round puddles gleam in the streets.

The fumes of the ovens stun.

Thawing, the bleak earthen seats

Smolder and steam in the sun.

By the corn-bin, dragging his chain,

The sheep-dog yawns on the sill.

Walls smoke with the charcoal stain.

The steppe is foggy and still.

The carefree cock will perform

Day-long for the sap-stirred earth.

In the fields it is drowsy and warm.

In the heart—indolent mirth.