Vladimir Solovyov (1853–1900)

WITH wavering feet I walked where dawn-lit mists were lying,

To find the shores of wonder and of mystery.

Dawn struggled with the final stars, frail dreams were flying,

While unto unknown gods my morning lips were crying

The prayers that my dream-imprisoned soul had whispered me.

The noon is cold and candid, the road winds on severely,

And through an unknown land once more my journey lies.

The mist has lifted now, and the stark eye sees clearly

How hard the mountain-road that rises upward sheerly,

How distant looms the dream the prescient heart descries!

Yet onward with unfaltering feet I shall be going

Toward midnight, onward toward the shore of my desires,

Where on a mountain-height, new stars its glory showing,

My promised temple waits, with plinth and pillar glowing,

Beaten about with flame of white, triumphal fires.