I

Not because they shuttered up and closed the bakers',
Not because the stoves had long been cold as
Ice—With lordly gait—and straightened shoulders-
Russian barin—you went forth to meet your Maker!

Bright the old world glowed. All that is finished.
—Nobleman, make way—for the wood-cutter! (1)
Now the mob thrives... But round you the spirit
Of the Eighteenth Century lived after.

While the mob ripped palace roofs down, panting
In their thirst to grab their lurid plunder—
You still trained young pups in bon ton, maintien,
Tenue—while the universe went under!

Sooner than espouse the mob's fair favor,
You now lie—from noblemanly boredom—
In a world of skin worn hard by labor—
With your exquisite hands crossed before you.

Moscow, March 1919

(NB! Even labor may become repugnant: even [the labor] of
others! if love of it be imposed on one and its glorification
made compulsory. M. Ts. — then and always.)

1 NB! If only [it were] — for the wood-cutter!