The peasants unloosen Their waistbelts, and gather Around the white napkin 420 To hold a great banquet. In joy, they embrace One another, and promise That never again Will they beat one another Without sound reflection, But settle their quarrels In reason and honour As God has commanded; That nought shall persuade them 430 To turn their steps homewards To kiss wives and children, To see the old people, Until they have settled For once and forever The subject of discord: Until they've discovered The man who, in Russia, Is happy and free. They swear to each other 440 To keep this, their promise, And daybreak beholds them Embosomed in slumber As deep and as dreamless As that of the dead. PART I. CHAPTER I. THE POPE[7] The broad sandy high-road With borders of birch-trees Winds sadly and drearily Into the distance; On either hand running Low hills and young cornfields, Green pastures, and often-- More often than any-- Lands sterile and barren. And near to the rivers 10 And ponds are the hamlets And villages standing-- The old and the new ones. The forests and meadows And rivers of Russia Are lovely in springtime, But O you spring cornfields, Your growth thin and scanty Is painful to see. "'Twas not without meaning 20 That daily the snow fell Throughout the long winter," Said one to another The journeying peasants:-- "The spring has now come And the snow tells its story: At first it is silent-- 'Tis silent in falling, Lies silently sleeping, But when it is dying 30 Its voice is uplifted: The fields are all covered With loud, rushing waters, No roads can be traversed For bringing manure To the aid of the cornfields; The season is late For the sweet month of May Is already approaching." The peasant is saddened 40 At sight of the dirty And squalid old village; But sadder the new ones: The new huts are pretty, But they are the token Of heartbreaking ruin.[8] As morning sets in They begin to meet people, But mostly small people: Their brethren, the peasants, 50 And soldiers and waggoners, Workmen and beggars. The soldiers and beggars They pass without speaking. Not asking if happy Or grievous their lot: The soldier, we know, Shaves his beard with a gimlet, Has nothing but smoke In the winter to warm him,-- 60 What joy can be his?