The kind-hearted peasants Can hardly help crying Themselves, and they think: "Yes, the chain has been broken, The strong links have snapped, And the one end recoiling 760 Has struck the Pomyeshchick, The other--the peasant." PART II. THE LAST POMYESHCHICK PROLOGUE The day of St. Peter-- And very hot weather; The mowers are all At their work in the meadows. The peasants are passing A tumble-down village, Called "Ignorant-Duffers," Of Volost "Old-Dustmen," Of Government "Know-Nothing.' They are approaching 10 The banks of the Volga. They come to the river, The sea-gulls are wheeling And flashing above it; The sea-hens are walking About on the sand-banks; And in the bare hayfields, Which look just as naked As any youth's cheek After yesterday's shaving, 20 The Princes Volkonsky[37] Are haughtily standing, And round them their children, Who (unlike all others) Are born at an earlier Date than their sires. "The fields are enormous," Remarks old Pakhom, "Why, the folk must be giants." The two brothers Goobin 30 Are smiling at something: For some time they've noticed A very tall peasant Who stands with a pitcher On top of a haystack; He drinks, and a woman Below, with a hay-fork, Is looking at him With her head leaning back. The peasants walk on 40 Till they come to the haystack; The man is still drinking; They pass it quite slowly, Go fifty steps farther, Then all turn together And look at the haystack. Not much has been altered: The peasant is standing With body bent back As before,--but the pitcher 50 Has turned bottom upwards.... The strangers go farther. The camps are thrown out On the banks of the river; And there the old people And children are gathered, And horses are waiting With big empty waggons; And then, in the fields Behind those that are finished, 60 The distance is filled By the army of workers, The white shirts of women, The men's brightly coloured, And voices and laughter, With all intermingled The hum of the scythes.... "God help you, good fellows!" "Our thanks to you, brothers!" The peasants stand noting 70 The long line of mowers, The poise of the scythes And their sweep through the sunshine. The rhythmical swell Of melodious murmur. The timid grass stands For a moment, and trembles, Then falls with a sigh....