The storm the sky with darkness covers,
The snowy whirlings twisting;
Like a beast wild now is howling,
Like an infant now is crying;
Over the aged roof now sudden
In the straw it rustling is;
Like a traveller now belated
For entrance at our window knocking.
With melancholy and with darkness
Our little, aged hut is filled
Why in silence then thou sittest
By the window, wife old mine?
Or by the howling storms art
Wearied thou, О companion mine?
Or perchance art slumbering,
By the rustling spindle soothed?
Joy it shall bring to our heart.
Let us drink, О kindly friend
Of my poverty and youth,
Away with grief,—where is the cup?