A quiet murmur of strings for Yaroslavna of old:
Mournful and pale your face, young and known to the ages.
Early, early you walk on the city wall;
You whisper incantations to the sun, wind, and wave,
Wanting to fly like a cuckoo to the distant river Kayal
Where your darling, without strength, has collapsed in the bloody grass.
Oh, all of your grief for your husband and lord!
And the winding river Dnepr carries your tears to the steppe.
A quiet murmur of strings for Yaroslavna of old:
Ancient and bright your face, young and known to the ages.
Was he wise, the unknown bard who sang The Tale,
Did he secretly behold all the dreams of the coming years?
Or is it that all Russian women come together in you?
You are Natasha, you are also Lisa, and you are Tatiana!
On the walls you weep in the morning...such brilliant grief!
And the winding song of the bard carries your tears to the ages!
The sea has tired of beating on the shore.
The sun fades, and the heat recedes.
In the evening hour the awakening shadows
Discuss the long ago with me.
And who said that the past is obscure?
Time and fate and inextricably entwined.
Yaroslavna will never cease to cry
Until the prince rises from the dead.
Again a furious wind howls:
There will be a bloody, evil rain.
How many days, how many long centuries,
Must I wait for you, my only love?
I walk into the field -- perhaps you're riding
On your faithful, foam-flecked steed?
I wait for you in ancient Putivl
On the high, white wall.
I would fly to meet you like a cuckoo,
Not fearing the enemy Basurman.
I would yet once again
Tend your heroic body's wounds.
The bent years pass on by,
Filled with human pain and troubles:
And to the summons of war's tumult
You respond like a soldier.
You did not consider burning wounds,
And your sword did not fall to the earth.
The horde of Genghis Khan was forced back,
Its head struck from its shoulders.
And for eternal centuries remains you,
Like thunder against the alien enemies,
The rivers of Russia washing
The foreign blood from your hands.
...Again a wind drones, unquiet;
Red rain roars across the land.
Again you, my beloved warrior,
Fly off to war on a winged steed.
Your path is hard, stern and warlike:
But Russia remains imperishable
And I, your Yaroslavna, wait for you
Glorious in your feats of arms.
Sunset has burned out.
A wild cry sounds at midnight.
These nights Yaroslavna cannot sleep--
She longs to fly to the distant Kayal.
She wants to fly to the prince's camp,
Where she would creep under the edge of his tent.
"Where are you, my Igor, my longed-for prince,
"My thrice-bright beloved?
"If I could be turned into a cuckoo,
"I would call above you:
"I would watch over your sleep until dawn,
"And fly before your troops into battle.
"I would lift my wings, like hands,
"To the secret powers of the earth and sky,
"So that Veles's gentle grandsons
"Would protect you on the field of battle:
"So that your arrows would not break in your quiver,
"So that your spear would not become blunt in battle,
"So that no Polovtsian would pierce with his arrow
"The heart of Igor, my beloved!"
Thus, her tears burning hotly,
Possessed by a passionate grief,
Upon the city walls the princess
Cries and laments until dawn.
She wants to see, when morning silvers the grass,
Banners as bright as honor streaming homeward
Like roaming wolves; and to hear, like barking foxes,
Dark red shields ringing in the dawn.
"Where are you, my Igor, my warrior? Do you still live?"
But in the quiet before dawn the distances remain silent.
Above quiet Putivl, made of wood,
Cocks' wings thunder.
The autumn torrents, the thunderstorms,
And the Russian winter have not erased our traces,
Yaroslavna--my light in Putivl,
My light, my day, my brief century!
Where, oh where, is he, the winged courier,
With the good news from the dreaded shores:
That by spears, quivers, and swords
Your Igor was saved from his foes!
No doubt: argue with the wind and you lose.
My distant friend, one thing I know:
Yaroslavna walks out crying
On the stone walls of Putivl.
I worship and glorify'
All those paths which you love:
That ground on which you walk;
Those waters which are yours.
You are so clear, so simple,
Ultimately you are so Russian...
May the path to your threshold
Be never rough nor overgrown!
| Kipling | Millay | Frost | Chesterton | Nash | Various | Rohan | Nathan |
| Bashô | Hopkins | Chinese | Burns | Slavic | Igor | Sappho | Wolfe |
| Ridges | Walden | Pine | Black Oak | Little Pine | Chestnut | Haw |
| Greenbelt | Emory Valley | Pellissippi | Key Springs | Snapping Turtle Pond |