Page:The Kobzar of the Ukraine.pdf/41



N a Sunday, very early, When fields were clad with mist A woman's form was bending 'Mid graves by cloud wreaths kissed. Something to her heart she pressed, In accents low the clouds addressed.

"Oh, you mist and raindrops fine, Pity this ragged luck of mine. Hide me here in grassy meadows, Bury me beneath thy shadows. Why must I 'mid sorrows stray? Pray take them with my life away. In gloomy death would be relief, Where none might know or see my grief. Yet not alone my life was spent, A father and mother my sin lament. Nor yet alone is my course to run For in my arms is my little son. Shall I, then, give to him christian name, To poverty bind, with his mother's shame?