Hey There, Russia, Mother Country

Hey there, Russia, mother country, Cottages in icon guise... Never-ending land of wonder, Vistas blue that suck the eyes. Like a passing holy pilgrim On your fields I turn my gaze, On the outskirts of poor villages Rustling poplars pine and fade. Smelling of sweet honey and apples Churches celebrate the Lord And the sounds of festive dancing Fill the fields and meadows broad. Off into the open country Down a beaten path I run And to meet me, light as catkins, Peals of girlish laughter come. If the heavenly host should beg me: "Come to live in heaven above!" I shall say: "Don't give me heaven But the Russia that I love."