When Jesus Christ was yet a child
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried in scorn to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly ‘Take I pray
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)
English: Henry Stoddard

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein He cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summer time drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they pluck’d them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The Boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers press’d it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young,
Red drops of blood, like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein he cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once as summertime drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree
With shouts they plucked them merrily.

‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried in scorn to Jesus there.
The boy said humbly ‘Take I pray
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers pressed it down
Till on his forehead fair and young
Red drops of blood like roses sprung.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

When Jesus Christ was yet a child,
He had a garden small and wild,
Wherein He cherished roses fair,
And wove them into garlands there.

Now once, as summer time drew nigh,
There came a troop of children by,
And seeing roses on the tree,
With shouts they pluck’d them merrily.
‘Do you bind roses in your hair?’
They cried, in scorn, to Jesus there.
The Boy said humbly: ‘Take, I pray,
All but the naked thorns away.’

Then of the thorns they made a crown,
And with rough fingers press’d it down,
Till on his forehead fair and young,
Red drops of blood, like roses sprung.

“Tï priletel iz goroda,
Kakiye, skazhi, tam slukhi nosyatsa o nas?”
(Skvortsa kukushka sprashivala raz.)
“Shto zhiteli tolkuyut gorodskiye khot
Naprimer, o pesnyakh solovya?
Interesuyus etim ochen ya.”
“Ves gorod on privodit v voskhishchenye,
Kogda v sadu evo razdastsa trel.”
“A zhavronok?”
“I zhavronok penye plenyayet ochen mnogikh.”
“Neuzhel? Nu, a kakov ikh otzïv o drozde?”
“Da khvalyat i yevo, khot ne vezde.”
“Eshchyo khochu sprosit ya, mozhet statsa,
I obo mne tï slïshal koye-shto?”
“Vot pro tebya, sestritsa, tak priznatsa,
Ne govorit reshitelno nikto!”
“A, esli tak”, kukushka vozopila,
“To o sebe, shto lyudyam otomstit,
Sama ves vek, pokuda khvatit silï,
Ne perestanu ya tverdit:
Kuku, kuku …”

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

Uzh tayet sneg, begut ruchi,
V okno poveyalo vesnoyu …
Zasvishchut skoro solovi,
I les odenetsa listvoyu!

Chista nebesnaya lazur.
Tepley i yarche solntse stalo;
Pora meteley zlïkh i bur
Opyat nadolgo minovala.

I serdtse silno tak v grudi
Stuchit, kak budto zhdyot chevo-to;
Kak budto schastye vperedi,
I unesla zima zabotï!

Vse litsa veselo glyadyat.
“Vesna!”—chitayesh v kazhdom vzore.
I tot, kak prazdniku, ey rad,
chya zhizn—lish tyazhkiy trud i gore.

No rezvïkh detok zvonkiy smekh
I bezzabotnïkh ptichek penye
Mne govoryat, kto bolshe vsekh
Prirodï lyubit obnovlenye!

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)

Akh, uymis tï, burya!
Ne shumite, eli!
Moy malyutka dremlet
Sladko v kolïbeli.

Tï, groza gospodnya,
Ne budi rebyonka!
Pronesites tuchi
Chyornïe storonkoy!

Bur eshchyo nemalo
Vperedi, bït mozhet,
I ne raz zabota
Son evo vstrevozhit.

Spi, ditya, spokoyno …
Vot groza stikhayet;
Materi molitva
Son tvoy okhranyayet.

Zavtra, kak prosnyoshsa
I otkroyesh glazki,
Snova vstretish solntse,
I lyubov, i laski.

Alexey Pleshcheyev (1825-1893)