The Russian Review/Volume 1/June 1916/My Dream
My Dream.
By Ada Chumachenko.
Translated by P. Leonov.
Every night I seem to see before me
My native fields, where sporting winds are free,
Where they sing their songs while gently swaying
The feath'ry grass, so like a silver sea.
And the tall proud poplar stands before me,
All shining with the sun's caressing rays;
And the calm, dark, quiet little garden
So long neglected—with its brush-wood maze.
Every night my country's shining heavens,
All azure-blue, above my head are sweet;
There I see the sun in golden glory,
Sending a glow through waves of rip'ning wheat.
And above, a sparrow-hawk is soaring,
A tiny speck, by sun caressed, he seems. . .
Every night I weep, as if my heart were breaking,
Weep like a child, deceived by its own dreams.