Vyacheslav Ivanov (b. 1866)

THE HOLY Rose her leaves will soon unfold.

The tender bud of dawn already lies

Reddening on the wide, transparent skies.

Love’s star is a white sail the still seas hold.

Here, in the light-soaked space above the wold,

Through the descending dew the arches rise

Of the unseen cathedral, filled with cries

From the winged weavers threading it with gold.

Here on the hill, the cypress, in accord

With me, stands praying: a cowled eremite.

And on the roses’ cheeks the tears fall light.

Upon my cell the patterned rays are poured.

And in the East, the purple vines bleed bright,

And seething, overflow…. Hosannah, Lord!