Page:Poems, Alexander Pushkin, 1888.djvu/99

Rh In great confusion now his thoughts are,

And all night he shakes in fever;

And till the morrow still the knocking

'S heard on the window and at the gates.

Report there was among the people:

Saying, since then every year

Waiting is the hapless peasant

For his guest on the appointed day.

In the morning the weather changes

And at night the storm arrives,

And the dead man is ever knocking

By the window, and at the gates.