O placid Don! I see thee flow
With shallow, snowy-sanded stream,
While light the steppe-winds o'er thee blow,
And cranes and gray-winged herons dream—
Safe as beside some dark lagoon—
Along thy banks in breezeless noon.
The Cossack wanders from thy shore,
But never finds a wave so fair;
Thy summer lapse, thy winter roar,
Still greet him in remotest air;
And death is sweet if he may lie,
With cross above, thy waters by.