Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Three Poems. i. The FluteFlorence Randal Livesay (1874–1953)
T
The embers slowly dying;
The father sits at the table,
Heavily, sadly thinking.
The mother, too, sits quiet,
Sending swift prayers to Heaven.
Her heart is filled with grief,
But she knows not words to tell it.
The sisters finish their sewing
By the light of the kahanetz.
To pipe sad tunes on a flute.
He plays on the flute of Ivan,
Ivan who serves the Czar.
Suddenly, with a heart-cry,
He stops his sad, sweet playing:
‘Ivan, Ivan, it sounds not!
Thy famous tunes are silent!
Where, O where art thou living
And how does my brother fare?’
He placed his flute near the rafters;
Quietly leaving the room
He went to sleep in the stable;
That he might talk with the bay
Concerning Ivan, his brother.
On the green grass lies a soldier,
Shot, awaiting death, alone, alone,
As a leaf in desert sands!
Only the moon is shining—
Above him the proud juniper
Her buds flings outward.
Dreaming of his home,
Bidding good-bye to father,
To mother, brother, and sisters.
‘Adieu, adieu, Kateryna,
With thine undying love,
With thy so sweet affection!
Adieu, my golden weapons,
Adieu, my bay in the stable,
That carried me to dances,
That knew my heart’s deep secrets!’
There reached his ears, uncertain,
The sounds of sweet flute-piping.
They drifted into silence….
The soldier’s head has fallen,
The stars have faded away.
Gather Ivan’s companions:
‘Brothers, come let us play it,
The famous flute of Ivan’s!’
How vain were all their efforts!
’Twas dumb, as dumb as ever.
Under the boughs of the juniper tree,
What does he dream, Ivan?
Does he dream of the bay,
Or of Kateryna?