Lola Ridge

From “In Russia”

THE SOLDIERS lie upon the snow,

That no longer gyrates under the spinning lights

Night juggles in her fat black hands.

They will not babble any more secrets to loose-mouthed nights

Expanding in golden auras,

While sleigh-bells jingle like new coins the darkness shuffles …

They will not drink any more wine—

Wine of the Romanoffs,

Jewelled wine

The secret years worked slowly at

Till it was wrought to fire,

As stones are faceted

Until they give out light.

The soldiers lie very still.

Their shadows have shrunk up close

As toads shrink under a stone;

And night and silence,

The ancient cronies,

Foregather above them.

But still over the snow, that is white as a ram’s fleece,

Arms swing like scythes …

And shadows in austere lines

Sway in a monstrous and mysterious ritual—

Shadows of the Kronstad sailors

Pouring blood and wine …

Wine

Spurting out of flagons in a spray of amethyst and gold,

Creeping in purple sluices;

Wine

And blood in thin bright streams

Besprinkling the immaculate snow;

Blood, high-powered with the heat of old vineyards,

Boring … into the cool snow …

Blood and wine

Mingling in bright pools

That suck at the lights of Petrograd

As dying eyes

Suck in their last sunset.

The night has a rare savor.

Out of the snow-piles—altar-high and colored as by rosy sacrifice—

Scented vapor

Ascends in a pale incense …

Faint astringent perfume

Of blood and wine.