Wake me tomorrow morning early,
long-suffering mother of mine.
I go out beyond the travel-mound
To welcome the long-expected guest.
Today I saw in a thicket
Broad wheel-marks in the ground.
The wind pulls under the cloudy vault
His golden shaft.
Bending his moon cap under the bush,
tomorrow at dawn he flies.
And playfully his mare will shake
her red tail over the plain.
Wake me tomorrow morning early,
Light a lamp in the best room.
For soon they say I shall become
A famous Russian poet.
I'll sing about you, and our guest,
our stove, our cock, and our home.
And over my poems will flow
The milk of your russet cows.