Between the rolling vapours
The moon glides soft and bright;
Across the dreary fallows
She casts a mournful light.
Along the wintry high road
A troika moves fleet;
Its little bells are ringing
One silver tone and sweet.
Some echo of my country
The driver's song recalls-
The memory of love yearnings
And noisy bacchanals.
No lights, no black-roofed dwellings-
Silence and snow ... I see
For mile on mile the road-posts
In striped monotony.