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Fyodor Sologub
67
Below the shaggy pine
They squeak and whirl and sling:
"You found the swings so fine?
Well, devil take you, swing!"
The fiend will not release
The board that hangs too steep
Till I am thrust toward peace
By the dark hand's dread sweep.
Until the hemp turns round
Too long, and is worn free,
Until the broad black ground
Comes flying up to me.
Above the pine I'll fling
And bore into the mire.
Then swing, devil, swing—
Higher, higher, higher!
