1.
Tower-bell striking
There in the Kremlin.
Where on the earth is,
Where—
Fortress of mine,
Meekness of mine,
Valor of mine,
Holy of mine.
Tower-bell striking,
Left-behind striking.
Where on the earth is—
My
Home,
My—dream,
My—laugh,
My—light,
Of narrow soles—a print.
As if a hand
Cast down the striking—
Into the night.
—My downcast one!
May 1921
2.
I lift the hands that I let fall
So long ago.
Into a black and empty window
Empty hands
I fling into mid-nocturnal striking
Clocks—I want
To go home!—Like this: head first
—From the tower!—Homeward!
Not onto the cobbled square:
Into rustle and whisper…
Some youthful Warrior will spread
His wing beneath me.
May 1921
3.
Harder and harder
Start wringing my hands!
Between us not earthly
Versts—but divisive
Celestial rivers, azure nations,
Where my friend is forever already—
Inalienable.
The high road races
In silvery harness.
I don’t wring my hands!
I only extend them
—In silence!—
Like a tree-(waving)-rowan
To parting,
The wake of a crane-wedge flying.
The crane train is racing,
Racing, no backward glances.
I’ll not desert haughtiness!
In death—I’ll abide
Elegant—to your gold-fledged quickness
The very last buttress
To the losses of space!
June
4.
Cover the bedstead
In swarthy olive.
The gods are jealous
Toward mortal love.
Each rustle to them
Is distinct, each swish.
Know, this young man is dear
Not to you alone.
Some one is incensed
With his luscious May-day.
Mind you, be wary
Of sharp-eyed heaven.
…
You think—it’s the cliffs
That attract, the crags,
You think, it’s the many-voiced
Summons of glory
Calling him—to the crush,
Chest-first at the spears?
As a rising billow
—You think—it buries?
A nether sting
—You think—penetrated?
Harsher than exile
Is this tsar’s favor!
You weep that it’s too late
To wander the valleys.
Don’t fear the earthborn
—Fear the invisible!
To them, each hair
Is known on the comb.
Thousand-eyed are
The gods, as of old
Fear not the mire—
But the heavenly firmament!
The heart of Zeus is
Insatiable.
June 12
5.
Ever so softly
With a hand slim and careful
I loosen the trammels:
Little hands—and obedient
To the neighing, the Amazon rustles
Off on the ringing, empty steps of parting.
In the radiant flyway
The winged one tramples
And neighs.—Dawn’s flare in the eyes.
Little hands, little hands!
You call to no purpose:
Between us there flows Lethe’s streaming staircase.
June 14
6.
You won’t see me—grey.
I won’t see you—grown.
From immobilized eyes
You can’t squeeze a tear.
To all of your torment,
Dawn’s explosion—lament:
—Lower your arm!
Shed your raincoat!
In the dispassion
Of a stone-eyed cameo,
I won’t linger in the door,
As mothers linger:
(All the gravity of blood,
Of knees, of eyes—
For the very last earthly
Time!)
Not as a sneaking broken beast—
No, as a stone massif
I’ll go out of the door—
From life. For what then
Should tears flow,
As long as—I’m a stone off your
Shoulders!
Not a stone!—Already
In aquiline wideness—
A cloak!—and already on the azure rapids
Into that radiant city,
Whither—no mother
Dares to bring
Her child.
June 15
7.
Like a silvery sapling
He darted upward.
That Zeus not
Espy him—
Pray!
At the first rustle
Take fear and alarm.
They are jealous of
Masculine charm.
More dreadful than the jaws
Of a beast—is their call.
The nest of the gods
Is jealous of charm.
With blossoms, with laurels
They’ll lure him aloft.
That Zeus not
Elect him—
Pray!
The whole sky in a thunder
Of eagles’ wings.
Crash down with your whole breast—
That they not conceal him.
In the aquiline thunder
—Oh beak! Oh blood!—
A miniscule lamb
Is dangling—Love…
With your hair unbound,
With your whole breast—prone!
That Zeus not
Exalt him—
Pray!
June 16
8.
I know, I know
That earthly charm,
That this incised
And charming cup—
Is no more ours
Than the air,
Than the stars,
Than the nests
That hang in dawn’s glow.
I know, I know
Who is the cup’s—owner!
But set a light foot forward—tower-like
To aquiline heights!
And with a wing—strike
That cup from the terrible
Pink
Lips of God!
June 17