Book: Evenings on a farm near Dikanka

Thunder, laughter, songs were heard less and less. The bow was dying, weakening and losing the indistinct sounds in the emptiness of air. Even heard somewhere stomping, something like the murmur of the distant sea, and soon everything became empty and dull.
Isn't it and joy, a beautiful and fickle guest, flies from us, and in vain the lonely sound thinking to Express the fun? In his own echo he hears the sadness and the desert and must heed it. Aren't you a frisky friend stormy and wild youth, one by one, one after another, lost in the light and leave, finally, one old brother with them? Boring left! And hard and sad is the heart, and nothing to help him.