XXXVIII

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XXXVIII

There, when the rains of spring we mark

Upon the meadows showering,

The shepherd plaits his shoe of bark,

Of Volga fishermen doth sing,

And the young damsel from the town,

For summer to the country flown,

Whene’er across the plain at speed

Alone she gallops on her steed,

Stops at the tomb in passing by;

The tightened leathern rein she draws,

Aside she casts her veil of gauze

And reads with rapid eager eye

The simple epitaph⁠—a tear

Doth in her gentle eye appear.