"The majority of the people do not understand -- they only wonder why the song has ceased." -- Extract from a Russian's letter.
With bearded faces and dull eyes they stand
Eyes pitiful as those of any child
With strong still bodies, yet with wavering hand
The glance so questioning and withal, so mild,
Their feet washed deep in rivulets of blood,
And in their souls strange passions unreleased,
Waiting, perhaps, the flaming of a mood,
The tongue still asking why the song has ceased!
For they loved beauty from the sculptor's hand,
And they loved music -- as the hills the wind --
And most of all they loved their great white land,
And now they stagger -- as a giant blind
Who cannot set the fullness of his strength
To some clear end, but stumbling to the rim
Of gaping canyons, crash down at length
Where Death has rigged an unseen grave for him!
Behind the ruddy torches, and the gloom
Of condor wings that gloat above the feast
They wait... like children in a burning room
Heedless -- and wondering why the song has ceased!
First published in The Triad, 10 March 1918
