| Deutsch and Yarmolinsky, comps. Modern Russian Poetry. 1921. | | | | “Oh, the Ricks” | | By Alexey K. Tolstoy (1817–1875) |
| | | OH, the ricks, the ricks, | |
| In the meadows lying, | |
| The eye cannot count | |
| You, for all its trying. | |
| |
| Oh, the ricks, the ricks, | 5 |
| In the green morasses, | |
| What do you guard: | |
| You heaped, heavy masses? | |
| |
| Pray, behold us, good sir: | |
| We were once bright flowers; | 10 |
| But the sharp scythe falls | |
| And the whole field cowers. | |
| |
| We were littered here, | |
| All mown down and shattered, | |
| On the meadowland | 15 |
| From each other scattered. | |
| |
| We have no defense: | |
| Evil guests come clawing— | |
| And upon our crests | |
| Perch the black crows, cawing. | 20 |
| |
| On our heads they perch, | |
| The starred heavens dimming. | |
| Here the jackdaws flock, | |
| Their foul hutches trimming. | |
| |
| Oh, thou eagle, hail! | 25 |
| Our far father flying, | |
| Oh, thou fire-eyed, come, | |
| Our bleak foes defying. | |
| |
| Oh, thou eagle, hail! | |
| Lo, our groans grow stronger. | 30 |
| Let the evil crows | |
| Blacken us no longer. | |
| |
| Oh, avenge us swift, | |
| From the heavens swooping; | |
| Punish their vile pride | 35 |
| Till their wings fall drooping: | |
| |
| Till the feathers fly; | |
| Come, a bolt of thunder, | |
| That the steppe’s wild wind | |
| Tear them all asunder. | 40 | | | |
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