Poems (Tree)/Holy Russia
For works with similar titles, see Holy Russia.
HOLY RUSSIA
THE ghostly blood of thee is in my veins,
Back through the centuries of death and birth,
Sometime I thrilled with thy gigantic pains,
My kin lie somewhere covered with thine earth.
Back through the centuries of death and birth,
Sometime I thrilled with thy gigantic pains,
My kin lie somewhere covered with thine earth.
And ever as in dreams I seem to see
Those streets and people with their colours cold;
Thou hast the singing hungers of the sea,
The tides of restless passion ages old.
Those streets and people with their colours cold;
Thou hast the singing hungers of the sea,
The tides of restless passion ages old.
I know thy humours and their contradiction,
I know thy fevers and hallucinations,
I see beneath the painted mask of fiction
Thy face of fierce and weary exaltations.
I know thy fevers and hallucinations,
I see beneath the painted mask of fiction
Thy face of fierce and weary exaltations.
And art thou come to gaze with wakened eyes
Into the sick world's travail and her grief,
Dost thou from thy long battling surmise
The end of battle and the world's relief?
Into the sick world's travail and her grief,
Dost thou from thy long battling surmise
The end of battle and the world's relief?
While we are creeping in our crooked ways
Along the crumbling roads of worn-out creeds
Where Ignorance walks royally through days
That smell of death, decay and bloody deeds.
Along the crumbling roads of worn-out creeds
Where Ignorance walks royally through days
That smell of death, decay and bloody deeds.
While we still cry to God for strength to kill,
Reminding Him that Britain rules the waves,
And grind young bones for the commercial mill,
And build munition works among the graves.
Reminding Him that Britain rules the waves,
And grind young bones for the commercial mill,
And build munition works among the graves.
Still crying "Honour," "Country" and "The Flag,"
"The last heroic fight in Freedom's name!"
Though Kings make mouths at Kings, and Prelates brag—
They boast of murder and they reek of shame! . . .
"The last heroic fight in Freedom's name!"
Though Kings make mouths at Kings, and Prelates brag—
They boast of murder and they reek of shame! . . .
Thou that hast touched the mystic wounds of God,
And strewn with broken hearts the Virgin's feet,
Feeling beneath the burden and the rod
His justice and Her pity in the street.
And strewn with broken hearts the Virgin's feet,
Feeling beneath the burden and the rod
His justice and Her pity in the street.
Justice and Pity, crying in the wind—
We only hear the guns that never cease,
The flapping of our flags has made us blind!
We may not see the sacred gods of peace.
We only hear the guns that never cease,
The flapping of our flags has made us blind!
We may not see the sacred gods of peace.
But thou dost build fanatic temples for them,
And thou dost pave the road with sanity,
And all the train of bitter ghosts adore them,
Who died to puff a monarch's vanity.
And thou dost pave the road with sanity,
And all the train of bitter ghosts adore them,
Who died to puff a monarch's vanity.
I hear thy orchestras of holy cheers,
The drum that life has snatched away from death,
And all the sighing rhythm of thy tears,
And the brave laughter of thy trumpet-breath.
The drum that life has snatched away from death,
And all the sighing rhythm of thy tears,
And the brave laughter of thy trumpet-breath.
Peace! But a cynic whispered in my ear
How kings like worms still wrangled for a crown
That lay amid the dust—and I could hear
A hum of money-changing in the town.
How kings like worms still wrangled for a crown
That lay amid the dust—and I could hear
A hum of money-changing in the town.
I feared that afterwards, when all is won,
We shall forget the meaning of thy deed—
And man will creep as he has always done
Along the little gutters of his greed.
We shall forget the meaning of thy deed—
And man will creep as he has always done
Along the little gutters of his greed.
1917