Page:Modern Russian Poetry.djvu/194

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Eh, Russians, Fowlers of the universe. You who trailed heaven with the net of dawn, Lift your trumpets!

Beneath the plow of storm The dumb earth roars. Golden-tusked, the colter breaks The cliffs.

A new sower Roams the fields. New seeds He casts into the furrows.

A guest of light drives toward us In a coach. Across the clouds A mare races.

The breech-band on the mare: The blue; The bells on the breech-band: The stars.