Better, my Lyre, to confess it freely!
It was the great ever stirred our feelings:
Masts, battle ensigns, churches, and kings,
Bards, epic heroes, eagles, and elders.
Those that are pledged to the realm, like soldiers,
Do not confide their Tent—to the winds.
You know the Tsar—do not toy with the hunter!
Loyalty has held us, firm as an anchor:
Loyalty to greatness—to guilt—to grief,
To the great crowned guilt—loyalty unswerving!
Those that are pledged to the Khan will serve him
—Their oath is not to the horde, but its chief.
We struck a fickle age, Lyre, that scatters
All to the winds! Uniforms ripped to tatters,
And the last shreds of the Tent worn thin...
New crowds collecting—other flags waving!
But we still stand by our word—unwavering,
For they are devious captains—the winds.

1 August 1918