Once in a bitter winter season
Out of the woods emerged I freezing.
I see: with brushwood cartload up the bend
A mare is trying to ascent.
Beside her, importantly calm and sedate
A peasant is walking and bridling her gait.
His feet in the high-boots, wearing mittens,
With sheepskin coat on... the boy is but little.
“Hi, fellow!” He answers - “Away you just go!”
“Oh, I can see you’re looking severe”
“Say, where the logs from?” - “From woods, don’t you know?”
“My dad’s there chopping and I bring them here”
(From woods there rang the sound of axe)
“So, tell me what, is your family big?”
“Aye, big it is, manpower it lacks;
It’s two of us only, my daddy and me.”
“Oh then, I see. And your name is ..?” - “Vlas”.
“How old are you, Vlas?” - “Six for today”
“C'mon, body!” - shouted the little with bass
Tugged at the bridle and quickened away.
Bright sunshine was spilled all over the glade
And the fellow was so ridiculously young,
As though that whole scene of cartwood was made,
As if before me a playhouse had sprung.
But the boy was alive, it all was true:
The wood-sledge, the brushwood and piebald mare.
The village, covered with snow through and through
The winter sun’s cold and fiery glare.
All that was so Russian, with genuine splendor,
With winter’s mark on it that’s desolate, killing.
It’s for a Russian soul painfully tender,
With Russian thoughts the minds it is filling.
The honest thoughts that seek freedom in vain,
That never die - suppressing them isn’t enough.
In which there’s plenty of malice and pain
In which there’s plenty of love!