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Konstantin Balmont
75
IN THE WHITE LAND
The candid psalm of Silence rises whitely burning,
The icy wastes are lit with sunset's radiant yearning.
The drowsy elements in yawning vistas freeze,
And voiceless are the argent Polar liturgies.
Above the sea of whiteness, crimson curtains falling;
No fields or forests here, clear crystal shines appalling.
White altars stretch beneath the changeless icy skies,
A prayer, not suppliant, a psalm, not voiced,—arise.
