The disquiet of vaporous moonshine,
The heartache of plains without end -
In youth these aroused that confusion
Where loathing with love would contend.
The dry willows lining the highway.
The waggon wheels' long-drawn refrain...
For nothing on earth would I like now
To hear that sound ever again.
I care not for poor country hovels,
A hearth fire I cherish no more.
The blizzard of apple-tree blossom
I cannot amid dearth adore.
Not these sights now stir me, but others...
In the feverish light of the moon
The strength of my land, I discover.
Lies in things made of steel and of stone.
For long enough, soil-tilling Russia,
You followed the primitive plough!
The poplar and birch suffer anguish
At the poverty seen all around.
For myself, I don't know my own future...
I've no place in the new life, I feel,
Yet still wish to see poor drab Russia
A prospering country of steel.
And, hearing the motors go barking
Through blizzard, hail, thunder and rain,
I've not the least wish now to hearken
To the song of cart axles again.