III

Hear Yaroslavna
Mourning her loved one
Ceaselessly—
Grief so impassioned,
Sighing—her sighs
Plaintive:

Who dashed the fair cup of health then
From my fingers?
Not mine to grow old but
Under cold stone, unto mould,
Igor!

Seal my red lips with clod and clay,
Now—and for ever.
It is over,
The White Crusade.

23 December 1920