of elm-tops amid mistthe
far-off notes of bellsendless clouds of rocksand the illimitable line of
the horizon.
AhRussiaRussiafrom my beautiful home in a strange land I can still
see you
uggclearance! In you everything is poor and disordered and unhomely; in you
the eye is neither cheered nor dismayed by temerities of nature which a yet
more temerarious art has conquered; in you one beholds no cities with
loftymany-windowed mansionslofty as cragsno picturesque treesno
ivy-clad ruinsno waterfalls with their everlasting spray and roarno
beetling precipices which confuse the brain with their stony immensityno
vistas of vines and ivy and millions of wild roses and ageless lines of blue
hills which look almost unreal against the clearsilvery background of the
sky. In you everything is flat and open; your towns project like points or
signals from smooth levels of plainand nothing whatsoever enchants or
deludes the eye. Yet what secretwhat invincible force draws me to you?
Why does there ceaselessly echo and re-echo in my ears the sad song
which hovers throughout the length and the breadth of your borders? What
is the burden of that song? Why does it wail and sob and catch at my heart?
What say the notes which yilai：
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