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From “In Russia”
THE SOLDIERS lie upon the snow, | |
| That no longer gyrates under the spinning lights | |
| Night juggles in her fat black hands. | |
| They will not babble any more secrets to loose-mouthed nights | |
| Expanding in golden auras, | 5 |
| While sleigh-bells jingle like new coins the darkness shuffles … | |
| They will not drink any more wine— | |
| Wine of the Romanoffs, | |
| Jewelled wine | |
| The secret years worked slowly at | 10 |
| Till it was wrought to fire, | |
| As stones are faceted | |
| Until they give out light. | |
| The soldiers lie very still. | |
| Their shadows have shrunk up close | 15 |
| As toads shrink under a stone; | |
| And night and silence, | |
| The ancient cronies, | |
| Foregather above them. | |
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| But still over the snow, that is white as a ram’s fleece, | 20 |
| Arms swing like scythes … | |
| And shadows in austere lines | |
| Sway in a monstrous and mysterious ritual— | |
| Shadows of the Kronstad sailors | |
| Pouring blood and wine … | 25 |
| Wine | |
| Spurting out of flagons in a spray of amethyst and gold, | |
| Creeping in purple sluices; | |
| Wine | |
| And blood in thin bright streams | 30 |
| Besprinkling the immaculate snow; | |
| Blood, high-powered with the heat of old vineyards, | |
| Boring … into the cool snow … | |
| Blood and wine | |
| Mingling in bright pools | 35 |
| That suck at the lights of Petrograd | |
| As dying eyes | |
| Suck in their last sunset. | |
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| The night has a rare savor. | |
| Out of the snow-piles—altar-high and colored as by rosy sacrifice— | 40 |
| Scented vapor | |
| Ascends in a pale incense … | |
| Faint astringent perfume | |
| Of blood and wine. | |
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