THE sun on the steppes is sinking, And gold is the distant grass. The convicts' fetters are clinking On the dusty road as they pass. They march, with heads closely shaven, With heavy steps onward go, Grief on their brows engraven And doubt in their hearts below. They march, with the shadows growing; Two sorry beasts drag a cart, And, lazily with them going, Is a guard who lingers apart. "Now, brothers, what of a chorus? Forget all our fortunes forlorn! Disaster was written for us Long ago when we were born." Then they start up a tune together, And try it, and break into song, Of lazy days in fine weather, Of the Volga that flows far and long. Of freedom and steppes they are singing; They sing of an untamed will. The day grows darker, and ringing On the road the fetters clink still. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...CONTRA MORTEM: THE CHILD by HAYDEN CARRUTH DELUSION by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO RICHARD R. WRIGHT - INSTRUCTOR by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO SAMUEL COLERIDGE UPON HEARING HIS 'SOME I FEEL LIKE A MOTHERLESS..' by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON TO THE MEMORY OF INEZ MILHOLLAND by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON |