Classic and Contemporary Poetry
COSSACK'S WINTER SONG, by FRIEDRICH RUCKERT Poet's Biography First Line: By the don my mother she bore me Last Line: "from him whom no might can withstand!" Alternate Author Name(s): Raimar, Freidmund Subject(s): Cossacks; Russia; Soviet Union; Russians | ||||||||
BY the Don my mother she bore me Mid mountains of ice and snow; Yet with cold I never was frozen, For my breast is always aglow. So, my good steed bestriding, Through the lands I come riding, So far from the gates of Moscow That where I am I don't know. I sate upon my threshold, And none so happy as I; I caught fresh fish for my table From the stream that went rushing by; I shot at the weasel, The fox and the sable, And made of the skin a garment, When winter, grim winter, drew nigh. There came from Alexander A call to me one night: "Up, Cossacks, shoulder to shoulder! There's other game in sight! Fierce beasts and devouring Our purlieus are scouring, A blood-spotted panther among them; Up, up to the chase, to the fight!" My steed, he pricked his ears up, For the call I gave was not low; He came; without spur or saddle, I mounted mid ice and snow; His bare back bestriding, Through the lands I come riding, So far from the gates of Moscow That where I am I don't know. And now I have driven the foemen, All that live, from my Emperor's lands; And they that remained in the country Are all now in very good hands. We found ourselves hurried -- In the snow they lie buried -- In the spring, when the snow-drifts are melted, We'll bury them under the sands. Now tell me, thou German, I pray thee, How much longer and farther I ride, Till I come to the end of my journey, To the land where the foemen abide? What day and what hour Through France shall I scour, And strangle the brood of the Serpent In the pestilent hole where they hide? A terrible comrade comes riding Along with me; well do ye know His might, -- ye have felt his keen arrows, Ice-pointed and feathered with snow. His name, -- it is Winter; Your lances he'll splinter; He rides on a cloudy-white charger, And follows wherever I go. He rides like the whirlwind behind you, With an icy-cold pike in his hand, And in front he comes, scattering, to blind you, The snow in your faces like sand; The rivers he bridges With icy-backed ridges, That he and I may find you, Ye Frenchmen, at home in your land! I have not yet forgotten The lesson ye bade me learn, -- The home of peace and comfort Into fire and smoke to turn. Barns, houses, have ye, too, 'T were well ye should see to, For I, when I will, have torches Your homes and your garners to burn. And if I take vengeance, who blames me? But Alexander says right: "You and the cold are no strangers, Nor need ye the firebrand's light. The snow-pillow fleecy Your slumber makes easy; Your tent is the awning of heaven, The stars are your candles by night. "Wild stories of northern barbarians They tell in this southerly land, Who bring with them nothing but murder And plunder and blackness and brand. Now, then, Cossacks, go ye, To silence them, show ye What you from the north bring with you, From Him whom no might can withstand!" | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OXOTA: A SHORT RUSSIAN NOVEL: CHAPTER 259 by LYN HEJINIAN A FOREIGN COUNTRY by JOSEPHINE MILES THE DIAMOND PERSONA by NORMAN DUBIE IN MEMORIAM: 1933 (7. RUSSIA: ANNO 1905) by CHARLES REZNIKOFF TAKE A LETTER TO DMITRI SHOSTAKOVITCH by CARL SANDBURG READING THE RUSSIANS by RUTH STONE THE SOVIET CIRCUS VISITS HAVANA, 1969 by VIRGIL SUAREZ A PROBLEM IN AESTHETICS by KAREN SWENSON A PARABLE by FRIEDRICH RUCKERT |
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