In the Russian wilds there’s too many to count;
but no path to them can be found:
by flood and storm the bridges are cut,
and weeds have barraged the road.
There in April they plough, in August they reap,
they bare their heads to sit down;
they patiently wait for Christ to appear,
but whoever appears, they bow –
to troika-borne constable, archangel with horn,
to strange-coated passerby.
They doctor their ailments with water and herb,
and none of them ever die.
God vouchsafes them sleep the winter through,
and the snow piles up roof-high;
no ice-hole vigil, no chopping of wood,
no sleighrides, no games, no delight.
Their bodies find peace as they lie on their shelves,
and their souls dream dreams full of cheer.
So much warmth has lodged in their rough sheepskins,
it’ll last until spring is here.