The cloudlets in springtime Play round the great sun Like small grandchildren frisking Around a hale grandsire, And now, on his right side 250 A bright little cloud Has grown suddenly dismal, Begins to shed tears. The grey thread is hanging In rows to the earth, While the red sun is laughing And beaming upon it Through torn fleecy clouds, Like a merry young girl Peeping out from the corn. 260 The cloud has moved nearer, The rain begins here, And the pope puts his hat on. But on the sun's right side The joy and the brightness Again are established. The rain is now ceasing.... It stops altogether, And God's wondrous miracle, Long golden sunbeams, 270 Are streaming from Heaven In radiant splendour. * * * * * "It isn't our own fault; It comes from our parents," Say, after long silence, The two brothers Goobin. The others approve him: "It isn't our own fault, It comes from our parents." The pope said, "So be it! 280 But pardon me, Christians, It is not my meaning To censure my neighbours; I spoke but desiring To tell you the truth. You see how the pope Is revered by the peasants; The gentry--" "Pass over them, Father--we know them." 290 "Then let us consider From whence the pope's riches. In times not far distant The great Russian Empire Was filled with estates Of wealthy Pomyeshchicks.[11] They lived and increased, And they let us live too. What weddings were feasted! What numbers and numbers 300 Of children were born In each rich, merry life-time! Although they were haughty And often oppressive, What liberal masters! They never deserted The parish, they married, Were baptized within it, To us they confessed, And by us they were buried. 310 And if a Pomyeshchick Should chance for some reason To live in a city, He cherished one longing, To die in his birthplace; But did the Lord will it That he should die suddenly Far from the village, An order was found In his papers, most surely, 320 That he should be buried At home with his fathers. Then see--the black car With the six mourning horses,-- The heirs are conveying The dead to the graveyard; And think--what a lift For the pope, and what feasting All over the village! But now that is ended, 330 Pomyeshchicks are scattered Like Jews over Russia And all foreign countries. They seek not the honour Of lying with fathers And mothers together. How many estates Have passed into the pockets Of rich speculators! O you, bones so pampered 340 Of great Russian gentry, Where are you not buried, What far foreign graveyard Do you not repose in?