A swarthy young boy lolled down pathways
By himself at the edge of the lake.
For a hundred long years we have cherished
The slight rustle his far footsteps make.
The thick, prickly fir-needles pile up
Above the low stumps of each tree…
Here’s his three-cornered hat and a dog-eared
Volume of verse by Parny.
1911. Translation by Vladimir Markov and Merrill Sparks.
