Category: Poetry
Our gardener is a restless old man.
Me is, perhaps, ninety years old.
But he, as the dawn lights up,
Is awake, rolls up his sleeves
And goes into the garden with a spade... —
to plant the flowers,
Or trim the tops of apple-trees.
Or dig the beds...
So thickly grow here and there
Violets, poppies, berries!
With spring in unison the winged friends
Are coming into the garden, — the old man is happy to see them.
And in May, in the beginning of the month, young and clear.
The leaves on the birch-tree will show green.
And the old man becomes younger and with tears in his eyes
Is looking at the low slanting willow-bed.
The years will pass — the willows will rustle her
And the young peo pie will come, will praise the garden,
And if the gardener dies.
The garden will live, bloom every year,
And the old man is happy: the larch-friend
Will sing about him, feeling sad, in the wind.