Russia
That smooth tree-trunk glistening in the rain,
Like the bronze wet skin of a swimmer fighting the waves,
Lightens the cloud behind it, proclaiming a sign of birth.
Alive and big with its prophetic sap,
It stands against the drab and dying winter . . . .
So, against this dingy life,
Stands Russia.
Rain, O feed the roots of that tree!
Clouds, spill your nourishing wine upon it!
Under it, as under the living sun,
Gather men who know the meaning of manhood.
All over the menacing, terrified earth, see how the Possessors have gathered,
How they have driven before them their bondservants armed and enrolled!
Lo, the axe that is laid to the root of that tree turns liquid and bathes it with silver;
And the sword that is lifted to slash it melts, powerless, and laves it in gold!
And the haughty Possessors grow pallid with terror, and cry to their bondsmen —
But the bondsmen are dumb, for their hearts are aflame and their arms are afold!
From her far casement, withdrawn from the fumy earth,
The Future, waiting, gazes out with her serene vision
Many centuries has she sat, lighting her window with candles,
And always, sighing, she has averted her clear gaze.
Below her, like sparks that war in the seething flame,
Fret th' uneasy worlds, and when sometimes,
Over the streaked smoke, that which she waits for has mounted, —
That plant whose roots are of earth, but its leaves sun-fed, —
Instant as risen it vanishes, sucked again into the turmoil;
And only welters beneath her the steamy furnace of battle.
But now! ah, once more its fresh leaves push sunward!
Once again rises its golden crest to the Maker of Gold!
Eager the Future gazes — and up, and up —
The Tree of Freedom is grown, whose fruits are ordained to the Future!
Think you, O Possessors, that bondsmen shall serve the Future?
Think you there shall be heard in her time the wail of the slave?
Under the snows of Russia, how many a young heart lay,
Slain for the love of freedom, whose blood has warmed that soil!
Meetly, O land of Russia, from consecrated clay
Burgeoned that tree of dreams, haven of men who toil!
Limitless plains of Russia, how often the young feet trod,
Wearily marching to exile, for the vision of truth they saw!
Fitly, O men of Russia, in dedicated sod
Have you planted your tree of hope and mercy and righteous law!
That tree fears not the rain that beats its flanks:
Rain shall make rich the sap within its veins!
It shivers not before the blade that hacks its branches:
Molten by truth, the guilty steel pours down upon it!
The placid Future smiles, within her windowed chamber.
She shall see ripe fruits put forth, out of the chilling rain,
And shall partake of one of them, whose name is Wisdom;
And of another, Justice;
And of another, shining and splendid, that shall be called Liberty.
Lo, each leaf of that tree is a song of its growth; the Possessors have trembled to hear it:
And its buds are a promise of fire that scorches the wrongs of the earth:
And the bondsmen are come to the boughs of that tree and a-sudden their souls are awakened;
And they that were sent to deal death taste the perilous sweetness of birth!
Yea, they have stood to destroy in its shade, and have heard how its branches have whispered
Into their acolyte spirits the secret of man and his worth!
Men have prayed, O rain, that you might drown that tree!
Men have longed, O clouds, for lightning from you!
And their curse has become a blessing,
Because the tree has been guarded by truth.
Singing in the rain,
The dull rain of grey and dying winter, —
Tending the blossomy Tree of Freedom, —
O light of the lowering sky —
Like the bronze wet skin of a swimmer fighting the waves,
Lightens the cloud behind it, proclaiming a sign of birth.
Alive and big with its prophetic sap,
It stands against the drab and dying winter . . . .
So, against this dingy life,
Stands Russia.
Rain, O feed the roots of that tree!
Clouds, spill your nourishing wine upon it!
Under it, as under the living sun,
Gather men who know the meaning of manhood.
All over the menacing, terrified earth, see how the Possessors have gathered,
How they have driven before them their bondservants armed and enrolled!
Lo, the axe that is laid to the root of that tree turns liquid and bathes it with silver;
And the sword that is lifted to slash it melts, powerless, and laves it in gold!
And the haughty Possessors grow pallid with terror, and cry to their bondsmen —
But the bondsmen are dumb, for their hearts are aflame and their arms are afold!
From her far casement, withdrawn from the fumy earth,
The Future, waiting, gazes out with her serene vision
Many centuries has she sat, lighting her window with candles,
And always, sighing, she has averted her clear gaze.
Below her, like sparks that war in the seething flame,
Fret th' uneasy worlds, and when sometimes,
Over the streaked smoke, that which she waits for has mounted, —
That plant whose roots are of earth, but its leaves sun-fed, —
Instant as risen it vanishes, sucked again into the turmoil;
And only welters beneath her the steamy furnace of battle.
But now! ah, once more its fresh leaves push sunward!
Once again rises its golden crest to the Maker of Gold!
Eager the Future gazes — and up, and up —
The Tree of Freedom is grown, whose fruits are ordained to the Future!
Think you, O Possessors, that bondsmen shall serve the Future?
Think you there shall be heard in her time the wail of the slave?
Under the snows of Russia, how many a young heart lay,
Slain for the love of freedom, whose blood has warmed that soil!
Meetly, O land of Russia, from consecrated clay
Burgeoned that tree of dreams, haven of men who toil!
Limitless plains of Russia, how often the young feet trod,
Wearily marching to exile, for the vision of truth they saw!
Fitly, O men of Russia, in dedicated sod
Have you planted your tree of hope and mercy and righteous law!
That tree fears not the rain that beats its flanks:
Rain shall make rich the sap within its veins!
It shivers not before the blade that hacks its branches:
Molten by truth, the guilty steel pours down upon it!
The placid Future smiles, within her windowed chamber.
She shall see ripe fruits put forth, out of the chilling rain,
And shall partake of one of them, whose name is Wisdom;
And of another, Justice;
And of another, shining and splendid, that shall be called Liberty.
Lo, each leaf of that tree is a song of its growth; the Possessors have trembled to hear it:
And its buds are a promise of fire that scorches the wrongs of the earth:
And the bondsmen are come to the boughs of that tree and a-sudden their souls are awakened;
And they that were sent to deal death taste the perilous sweetness of birth!
Yea, they have stood to destroy in its shade, and have heard how its branches have whispered
Into their acolyte spirits the secret of man and his worth!
Men have prayed, O rain, that you might drown that tree!
Men have longed, O clouds, for lightning from you!
And their curse has become a blessing,
Because the tree has been guarded by truth.
Singing in the rain,
The dull rain of grey and dying winter, —
Tending the blossomy Tree of Freedom, —
O light of the lowering sky —
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