The High Road In Winter
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.
Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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