TURGENEV'S SPORSTMAN'S SKETCHES

Let us call on your day-dream
walking through dusty woods
over Byezhin meadow
minding family horses
of the Sportsman Sketches
telling childhood ghost stories.

It is cold for March
in tiny hamlets the sun envies
you have no prince's room
there are few candles burning
by the campfire you wish
outside the tub
in the wintry bristling air

A foreign correspondence
awaits you inside
oven birds are at the windows
watching the horseshoes
as echo bells ring
at noon
to munch on an apple.