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Vyacheslav Ivanov
107
NOMADS OF BEAUTY
"You are artists, Nomads of Beauty."
—"Flamings."
For you—ancestral acres,
And, choked, the graveyard waits.
For us, the free forsakers,—
The camp that Beauty fates.
For us—the daily treason,
The tents we daily flee,
Mocked by each dawning season
Of our captivity.
Believe the dimmer distance,
All curtains: magic veils,
All Springtides' green persistence,
Whole heaven's vasty gales!
Oh, vagrant artists, shepherd
Your droves of dreams unbound;
And sow, although you jeopard
The soon-abandoned ground.
And from your open spaces
Rush down, a whirling horde,
Where slaves tamed to the traces
Adore their overlord.
