Those long parted—those departed—
Those in lofty heights, transplanted
To that white camp where the crane flies-
Doves' domain and swans' demesne lies-

All my words are of you,
My ideal—answer, do!

Of those sapling copses striving
Skyward, thriving^iot surviving,
And of all whom it's befallen
To cross over—of the fallen,—

All my sighs are of you,
You, our Honor—send news!

Every evening, every evening,
Arms outstretched, I send you greetings.
In those shoreless dovely regions—
Those I love—their name is legion!

In red Rus all is by
With me—raise me on high!

October 1920