Vladimir Solovyov (1853–1900)

BELOW the sultry storm that seemed to lower,

An alien force, again I heard the call

Of my mysterious mate: the prisoned power

Of old dreams flared and flickered in its fall.

And with a cry of horror and of dolor—

As of an eagle in an iron vise—

My spirit shook its cage in quivering choler,

And tore the net, and issued to the skies.

And up behind the clouds, unswerving, bearing,—

Before the miracles—a flaming sea—

Within the shining sanctum briefly flaring,

It vanished into white infinity.