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.
