1.
My golden earth! You bright
Cathedral of Autumn!
A flock of geese takes flight
For the clouds, calling.
Transfigured souls! A horde
Innumerable, that flies
From lakes of sleep towards
Gardens of Paradise.
In front a swan is flying,
Its eyes sad as a grove.
- You, in the sky crying,
My Russia on the move.
Fly on, fly on without fear.
All things have bourne and term.
The wind crowds into song
And the song vanishes in time.
2.
The sky is like a bell,
The moon a tongue's lick.
My mother's my country,
And I a Bolshevik.
For universal
Fraternity
I celebrate in song
Your death, my country.
Powerful and strong,
I take the moon and beat
Heaven's azure gong
At your defeat.
Brothers of all races,
My song is made for you.
Enveloped in mist
I hear the shining hews.
3.
And here is the dove, borne
Aloft in the wind's hands.
It smokes with a new dawn,
My rustic Jordan land.
I praise you, dove, who weld
The vault with stars of ice.
My hands in prayer are held
To ancestral paradise.
I see you, grassy plains,
Swarming with chestnut herds,
And there Saint Andrew plays
His flute among the pollards.
On the edge of the village,
A maiden-mother, sick
And angry with Knowledge,
Beats an ass with a stick.
4.
Ah, brothers, brothers! Men!
Will we not all some day
Live in that blessed region
Where trails the Milky Way?
Do not regret the dead,
The dying; better far
The blooming lilies there,
Than our fresh pastures here.
Love's guardian's a sinner.
Time's cradled by sorrow,
Not content. Today's winner
's a beggar tomorrow.
5.
O new, new, new! Day
Cut from the swarm of days!
Youth with the head of a sun,
Come, sit by me at the fence.
And let me comb your hair
With the moon's fine comb,
For we have learned to greet
The stranger with this custom.
Maurice's ancient shade,
Cousin of our hills,
Abraham visits our fields
With a shower of rain.
Come down to me on the wing,
In peace perch on my arm.
I will light a blue star
As a candle for you.
And I will pray to you,
And praise your Jordan land.
And here is the dove, borne
Aloft in the wind's hand.