Page:The Kobzar of the Ukraine.pdf/116



COUNT in prison the days and nights And then forget the count. How heavily, Oh Lord, Do these days pass! And the years flow after them, Quietly they flow, Bearing with them Good and ill. Everything do they gather Never do they return. You need not plead. Your prayers unanswered fall. Mid oozy swamps
 * among the weeds

Year after weary year
 * has sadly flowed.

Much of something have they taken From dark store-house of my heart; Borne it quietly to the sea,
 * As quietly the sea swallowed it.

Not gold and silver
 * Did they take from me,

But good years of mine
 * Freighted with loneliness,