Aleksey Koltsov
The Ploughman’s Song

Pull, my gray one, pull now!
Turning o’er the black clods,
Mother-earth will burnish
White the iron ploughshare.

Blushing dawn, the fair one,
Lo! on the bright horizon;
From the waking woodland
Comes the sun in glory.

Joyous rolls the ploughland!
Pull, my gray one, pull now!
Beast and man must toil here,
Comrade-like, together.

Toiling share and harrow
I with glad heart follow,
Fling the golden seed-corn
O’er the ground in showers.

Merry, ho, the toilers
Thrash will in the wide barn!
Merry ’tis to winnow!
Pull, my gray one, pull now!

Husbandman and gray one
Till the land at daybreak,
Consecrate a cradle
Fitting for the seed-corn.

Sun and rain will nourish,
Mother-earth sustain will,
Green the blades will spring up…
Pull, my gray one, pull now!…

Aye, green blades will spring up,
Stalks, full-eared, will bend low,
Yellowing and rip’ning,
Nod in summer breezes.

Reapers will come thronging;
Scythes will ring and glisten.
Large the joy, the rest sweet,
In the fragrant corn-ricks.

Oats I’ll give thee freely,
And a cool drink, beastie,
From the well I’ll bring thee.
Pull, my gray one, pull now!

Silently I, musing,
Plough the land and sow it.
Trustful, God, we pray Thee
Make the harvest prosper.

Translated by Eugene Mark Kayden