Russia
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, who stirrest thy limbs and out-moanest,
Speaking strange words from the dark broken heart of thy dreaming,
Why on the steppes lies thy body under the sun and the moonlight,
Thy hair, white with sorrow, outspread 'neath the stars of the Nor'land,
Thy feet in the sea-waves where Jason for the Golden Fleece went a-questing?
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, thy years are the years of a woman,
Yet thy face is the face of a child, who knows not why she is chidden,
Thrust forth from the household of nations, a waif and an outcast,
Watching her sisters afar as they pass in the pride of their glory,
Sobbing her lone heart to sleep, yet in dreams remembering her weeping!
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, what passeth beneath the dark eyelids?
Art thou as one in a dream who meets ever and aye his own footsteps?
Or, as a traveller on the white steppes and thro' an infinite forest
Heareth the howl of the wolves, and flees, yet has no power of fleeing?
Or, as one pursued for a crime, and the crime is to dream of freedom?
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, when thou turnest thy face to the westward,
The soul of thy fathers still draweth thee back to the sunrise;
When thou laughest low in thy sleep, behold, with a child thou art playing,
And when thou weepest, 'tis not for thyself thou art weeping,
The tears on thy cheek are the tears of a race and a world all mortal!
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, who smilest so sad in thy dreaming,
Thou hearest the song of the Mother, sweet, vast, and tumultuous,
Voices of women and children, the march of the men and the movements,
Winds in the reeds of the marshes, the moan of the storm in the forests,
And, under the murmur of streams, lo, the sound of the tears of the Maker!
Now, Sleeper of Ages, thou stirrest thy limbs and awakest,
Wilt thou turn thine eyes to the Sunrise, the home of thy fathers?
Wilt thou march in the highway that opens out to the westward?
Nay, say to thy soul, " I will dwell in my land of the steppes and the forests:
Yet will I free my heart with the sea and the voice of its waters!"
Speaking strange words from the dark broken heart of thy dreaming,
Why on the steppes lies thy body under the sun and the moonlight,
Thy hair, white with sorrow, outspread 'neath the stars of the Nor'land,
Thy feet in the sea-waves where Jason for the Golden Fleece went a-questing?
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, thy years are the years of a woman,
Yet thy face is the face of a child, who knows not why she is chidden,
Thrust forth from the household of nations, a waif and an outcast,
Watching her sisters afar as they pass in the pride of their glory,
Sobbing her lone heart to sleep, yet in dreams remembering her weeping!
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, what passeth beneath the dark eyelids?
Art thou as one in a dream who meets ever and aye his own footsteps?
Or, as a traveller on the white steppes and thro' an infinite forest
Heareth the howl of the wolves, and flees, yet has no power of fleeing?
Or, as one pursued for a crime, and the crime is to dream of freedom?
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, when thou turnest thy face to the westward,
The soul of thy fathers still draweth thee back to the sunrise;
When thou laughest low in thy sleep, behold, with a child thou art playing,
And when thou weepest, 'tis not for thyself thou art weeping,
The tears on thy cheek are the tears of a race and a world all mortal!
Ah, Sleeper of Ages, who smilest so sad in thy dreaming,
Thou hearest the song of the Mother, sweet, vast, and tumultuous,
Voices of women and children, the march of the men and the movements,
Winds in the reeds of the marshes, the moan of the storm in the forests,
And, under the murmur of streams, lo, the sound of the tears of the Maker!
Now, Sleeper of Ages, thou stirrest thy limbs and awakest,
Wilt thou turn thine eyes to the Sunrise, the home of thy fathers?
Wilt thou march in the highway that opens out to the westward?
Nay, say to thy soul, " I will dwell in my land of the steppes and the forests:
Yet will I free my heart with the sea and the voice of its waters!"
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