That...

The banks of the Volga in steppe land mist,
Sparse-growing, yellow-green grasses;
And that height with its beauty hard to reist
Two kilometer's from the crossing.


The wind drives clouds in transparent droves
At daybreak over the summit.
Clear from here the broad river shows
With the city-how work clothes become it !


On a windless midday it drives one mad,
The smell of the grasses drying.
At the foot lie gullies and houses stand,
Gulls fly over the Volga, crying...

Here end the Tsar familie...