Wrathful, relentless, The carter thus finished The tale of the peasant 80 In thunder-like tones. The others sigh deeply And rise. They're exclaiming, "So, that's what it is, then, The sin of the peasant. He's right. 'Tis indeed A most terrible sin!" "The story speaks truly; Our grief shall be endless, Ah, me!" says the Elder. 90 (His faith in improvements Has vanished again.) And Klimka, who always Is swayed in an instant By joy or by sorrow, Despondingly echoes, "A terrible sin!" The green by the Volga, Now flooded with moonlight, Has changed of a sudden: 100 The peasants no longer Seem men independent With self-assured movements, They're "Earthworms" again-- Those "Earthworms" whose victuals Are never sufficient, Who always are threatened With drought, blight, or famine, Who yield to the trader The fruits of extortion 110 Their tears, shed in tar. The miserly haggler Not only ill-pays them, But bullies as well: "For what do I pay you? The tar costs you nothing. The sun brings it oozing From out of your bodies As though from a pine." Again the poor peasants 120 Are sunk in the depths Of the bottomless gulf! Dejected and silent, They lie on their stomachs Absorbed in reflection. But then they start singing; And slowly the song, Like a ponderous cloud-bank, Rolls mournfully onwards. They sing it so clearly 130 That quickly our seven Have learnt it as well. _The Hungry One_ The peasant stands With haggard gaze, He pants for breath, He reels and sways; From famine food, From bread of bark, His form has swelled, His face is dark. 140 Through endless grief Suppressed and dumb His eyes are glazed, His soul is numb. As though in sleep, With footsteps slow, He creeps to where The rye doth grow. Upon his field He gazes long, 150 He stands and sings A voiceless song: "Grow ripe, grow ripe, O Mother rye, I fostered thee, Thy lord am I. "Yield me a loaf Of monstrous girth, A cake as vast As Mother-Earth. 160 "I'll eat the whole-- No crumb I'll spare; With wife, with child, I will not share." "Eh, brothers, I'm hungry!" A voice exclaims feebly. It's one of the peasants. He fetches a loaf From his bag, and devours it. "They sing without voices, 170 And yet when you listen Your hair begins rising," Another remarks.