And so to him we sing,
This brave young fellow,
Honor and glory
In Russia holy.
Glory in Heaven
Glorious sun above
Ivan the Terrible.
I firmly kiss you, friend, till Wednesday.
I send you, friend Modeste, the little song of the girls in the forest, from Krestovsky's libretto [for Pskovityanka]. Here it is:
Ah, my forest, my sweet father,
How dark you've grown, how noisy!
How he roars and sways,
Thinking his dark dread thoughts,
Swaying with his dark thoughts,
Like my own sweet father,
Like my own sweet father
Rustling, roaring, growing angry!
Under the thunder-clouds and rain
He will shelter his dear daughter
From the flitting, flying evil,
He will shelter the wanderer with love.
The meter of the verses fits my little theme and the lines are also just right. I think the verses pretty good and I send them to you. In case you find them suitable, because in these matters you have eaten dog* [because this is your strong point] you will not have to trouble inventing new verses. If you consider it necessary, make corrections in the verses.
Till we meet, dear friend,
Sunday, 9th May ____________________