Vyacheslav Ivanov (b. 1866)

“You are artists, Nomads of Beauty.”
—“Flamings.”

FOR you—ancestral acres,

And, choked, the graveyard waits.

For us, the free forsakers,—

The camp that Beauty fates.

For us—the daily treason,

The tents we daily flee,

Mocked by each dawning season

Of our captivity.

Believe the dimmer distance,

All curtains: magic veils,

All Springtides’ green persistence,

Whole heaven’s vasty gales!

Oh, vagrant artists, shepherd

Your droves of dreams unbound;

And sow, although you jeopard

The soon-abandoned ground.

And from your open spaces

Rush down, a whirling horde,

Where slaves tamed to the traces

Adore their overlord.

Trample their Edens, plow them,

Oh, Attila, with scars.

And grow—to Beauty vow them—

Your steppe flowers like stars.