Florence Randal Livesay (1874–1953)

Translated from the Ukrainian of Fedkovich

IN the great Emperor’s courtyard

He stood at his post on the pavement.

He washed his face and dried it

As the duck her wings in water.

He washed his face with his tears.—

None saw or heard in the silence.

He leaned his head on the bayonet

And slept for a precious moment,

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He slept on his sharp-tipped bayonet.

He dreamt that he walked on a mountain—

O blue was the dream-like mountain!

Brushing his hair in ringlets

He walked on thinking, thinking:

Why does my mother write not,

Or can she still be living?

He heard her answer softly:

‘I would like, my son, to write you,

But they made me a tomb so lofty

That I may not rise from beneath it.

Oh, rise I cannot, my Eagle!

For deep below, on the bottom,

They have covered my hands with earth-clods,

With earth that is lying heavy.’

In the great Emperor’s courtyard

He would have dreamt still longer

But the bell on high St. Stephen’s

Rang with a noisy clamour …

He wiped his face from the misting,

His bayonet wiped he dully …

Blood flows on the courtyard pavement

From the soldier lying dead there.