[Contents]A Poem of ExileA Poem of ExileI count in prison the days and nightsAnd then forget the count.How heavily, Oh Lord,Do these days pass!And the years flow after them,Quietly they flow,Bearing with themGood and ill.Everything do they gatherNever do they return.You need not plead,Your prayers unanswered fall.Mid oozy swampsamong the weedsYear after weary yearhas sadly flowed.Much of something have they takenFrom dark store-house of my heart;Borne it quietly to the sea,As quietly the sea swallowed it.Not gold and silverDid they take from me,But good years of mineFreighted with loneliness,[115]Sorrows written on the heartWith unseen pen.And a fourth year passesSo gently, so slowly,The fourth bookof my imprisonmentI start to stitch up,Embroidering it with tearsOf homesicknessin a foreign land.Yet such woetells itself not in words.Never, neverin the wide world.In far away captivityThere are no wordsNot even tears,Just nothingness;Not even God above thee,Nothing is there to see,None with whom to speak,Not even desire for life.Yet thou must live!I must! I must!But for what?That I may not lose my soul?My soul is not worthsuch suffering!Then why must I live onin the world,[116]Drag these fettersin my jail?Because, perchance,my own UkraineI shall see again.Again I shall pour outmy words of sorrowTo the green grovesand rich meadows.No family have I of my ownin all Ukraine,Yet the people thereare different from these foreignersI would walk againamong the bright villagesOn the Dnieper’s banksand sing my thoughtsgentle and sad.Grant me,Oh God of mercyThat I may liveto see againThose green meadows,those ancestral tombs.If Thou wilt not grant this,Yet bear my tearsTo my Ukraine.Because, God,I die for her.It may be that I shall liemore lightly in foreign soil[117]When sometimes in Ukrainethey speak of my memory.Carry my tears thenOh God of loving kindness,Or at leastsend hope into my soul.I can think no morewith my poor head,For coldness of deathcomes on meWhen I think that they maybury me in foreign soilAnd bury my thoughts with meAnd none tell about mein the Ukraine.And yet it may bethat gently through the yearsMy tear-embroidered songsshall fly sometimeAnd fallas dew upon the groundOn the tender heart of youth,And youth shall nod assent.And weep for meMaking mention of me in its prayers.Well, as it will beso it will be.Perhaps ’twill swimPerhaps ’twill wadeYet even if they crucify me for itI’ll still write my verses.[118]
[Contents]A Poem of ExileA Poem of ExileI count in prison the days and nightsAnd then forget the count.How heavily, Oh Lord,Do these days pass!And the years flow after them,Quietly they flow,Bearing with themGood and ill.Everything do they gatherNever do they return.You need not plead,Your prayers unanswered fall.Mid oozy swampsamong the weedsYear after weary yearhas sadly flowed.Much of something have they takenFrom dark store-house of my heart;Borne it quietly to the sea,As quietly the sea swallowed it.Not gold and silverDid they take from me,But good years of mineFreighted with loneliness,[115]Sorrows written on the heartWith unseen pen.And a fourth year passesSo gently, so slowly,The fourth bookof my imprisonmentI start to stitch up,Embroidering it with tearsOf homesicknessin a foreign land.Yet such woetells itself not in words.Never, neverin the wide world.In far away captivityThere are no wordsNot even tears,Just nothingness;Not even God above thee,Nothing is there to see,None with whom to speak,Not even desire for life.Yet thou must live!I must! I must!But for what?That I may not lose my soul?My soul is not worthsuch suffering!Then why must I live onin the world,[116]Drag these fettersin my jail?Because, perchance,my own UkraineI shall see again.Again I shall pour outmy words of sorrowTo the green grovesand rich meadows.No family have I of my ownin all Ukraine,Yet the people thereare different from these foreignersI would walk againamong the bright villagesOn the Dnieper’s banksand sing my thoughtsgentle and sad.Grant me,Oh God of mercyThat I may liveto see againThose green meadows,those ancestral tombs.If Thou wilt not grant this,Yet bear my tearsTo my Ukraine.Because, God,I die for her.It may be that I shall liemore lightly in foreign soil[117]When sometimes in Ukrainethey speak of my memory.Carry my tears thenOh God of loving kindness,Or at leastsend hope into my soul.I can think no morewith my poor head,For coldness of deathcomes on meWhen I think that they maybury me in foreign soilAnd bury my thoughts with meAnd none tell about mein the Ukraine.And yet it may bethat gently through the yearsMy tear-embroidered songsshall fly sometimeAnd fallas dew upon the groundOn the tender heart of youth,And youth shall nod assent.And weep for meMaking mention of me in its prayers.Well, as it will beso it will be.Perhaps ’twill swimPerhaps ’twill wadeYet even if they crucify me for itI’ll still write my verses.[118]
A Poem of ExileA Poem of ExileI count in prison the days and nightsAnd then forget the count.How heavily, Oh Lord,Do these days pass!And the years flow after them,Quietly they flow,Bearing with themGood and ill.Everything do they gatherNever do they return.You need not plead,Your prayers unanswered fall.Mid oozy swampsamong the weedsYear after weary yearhas sadly flowed.Much of something have they takenFrom dark store-house of my heart;Borne it quietly to the sea,As quietly the sea swallowed it.Not gold and silverDid they take from me,But good years of mineFreighted with loneliness,[115]Sorrows written on the heartWith unseen pen.And a fourth year passesSo gently, so slowly,The fourth bookof my imprisonmentI start to stitch up,Embroidering it with tearsOf homesicknessin a foreign land.Yet such woetells itself not in words.Never, neverin the wide world.In far away captivityThere are no wordsNot even tears,Just nothingness;Not even God above thee,Nothing is there to see,None with whom to speak,Not even desire for life.Yet thou must live!I must! I must!But for what?That I may not lose my soul?My soul is not worthsuch suffering!Then why must I live onin the world,[116]Drag these fettersin my jail?Because, perchance,my own UkraineI shall see again.Again I shall pour outmy words of sorrowTo the green grovesand rich meadows.No family have I of my ownin all Ukraine,Yet the people thereare different from these foreignersI would walk againamong the bright villagesOn the Dnieper’s banksand sing my thoughtsgentle and sad.Grant me,Oh God of mercyThat I may liveto see againThose green meadows,those ancestral tombs.If Thou wilt not grant this,Yet bear my tearsTo my Ukraine.Because, God,I die for her.It may be that I shall liemore lightly in foreign soil[117]When sometimes in Ukrainethey speak of my memory.Carry my tears thenOh God of loving kindness,Or at leastsend hope into my soul.I can think no morewith my poor head,For coldness of deathcomes on meWhen I think that they maybury me in foreign soilAnd bury my thoughts with meAnd none tell about mein the Ukraine.And yet it may bethat gently through the yearsMy tear-embroidered songsshall fly sometimeAnd fallas dew upon the groundOn the tender heart of youth,And youth shall nod assent.And weep for meMaking mention of me in its prayers.Well, as it will beso it will be.Perhaps ’twill swimPerhaps ’twill wadeYet even if they crucify me for itI’ll still write my verses.[118]
A Poem of Exile
I count in prison the days and nightsAnd then forget the count.How heavily, Oh Lord,Do these days pass!And the years flow after them,Quietly they flow,Bearing with themGood and ill.Everything do they gatherNever do they return.You need not plead,Your prayers unanswered fall.Mid oozy swampsamong the weedsYear after weary yearhas sadly flowed.Much of something have they takenFrom dark store-house of my heart;Borne it quietly to the sea,As quietly the sea swallowed it.Not gold and silverDid they take from me,But good years of mineFreighted with loneliness,[115]Sorrows written on the heartWith unseen pen.And a fourth year passesSo gently, so slowly,The fourth bookof my imprisonmentI start to stitch up,Embroidering it with tearsOf homesicknessin a foreign land.Yet such woetells itself not in words.Never, neverin the wide world.In far away captivityThere are no wordsNot even tears,Just nothingness;Not even God above thee,Nothing is there to see,None with whom to speak,Not even desire for life.Yet thou must live!I must! I must!But for what?That I may not lose my soul?My soul is not worthsuch suffering!Then why must I live onin the world,[116]Drag these fettersin my jail?Because, perchance,my own UkraineI shall see again.Again I shall pour outmy words of sorrowTo the green grovesand rich meadows.No family have I of my ownin all Ukraine,Yet the people thereare different from these foreignersI would walk againamong the bright villagesOn the Dnieper’s banksand sing my thoughtsgentle and sad.Grant me,Oh God of mercyThat I may liveto see againThose green meadows,those ancestral tombs.If Thou wilt not grant this,Yet bear my tearsTo my Ukraine.Because, God,I die for her.It may be that I shall liemore lightly in foreign soil[117]When sometimes in Ukrainethey speak of my memory.Carry my tears thenOh God of loving kindness,Or at leastsend hope into my soul.I can think no morewith my poor head,For coldness of deathcomes on meWhen I think that they maybury me in foreign soilAnd bury my thoughts with meAnd none tell about mein the Ukraine.And yet it may bethat gently through the yearsMy tear-embroidered songsshall fly sometimeAnd fallas dew upon the groundOn the tender heart of youth,And youth shall nod assent.And weep for meMaking mention of me in its prayers.Well, as it will beso it will be.Perhaps ’twill swimPerhaps ’twill wadeYet even if they crucify me for itI’ll still write my verses.
I count in prison the days and nightsAnd then forget the count.How heavily, Oh Lord,Do these days pass!And the years flow after them,Quietly they flow,Bearing with themGood and ill.Everything do they gatherNever do they return.You need not plead,Your prayers unanswered fall.Mid oozy swampsamong the weedsYear after weary yearhas sadly flowed.Much of something have they takenFrom dark store-house of my heart;Borne it quietly to the sea,As quietly the sea swallowed it.Not gold and silverDid they take from me,But good years of mineFreighted with loneliness,[115]Sorrows written on the heartWith unseen pen.And a fourth year passesSo gently, so slowly,The fourth bookof my imprisonmentI start to stitch up,Embroidering it with tearsOf homesicknessin a foreign land.Yet such woetells itself not in words.Never, neverin the wide world.In far away captivityThere are no wordsNot even tears,Just nothingness;Not even God above thee,Nothing is there to see,None with whom to speak,Not even desire for life.Yet thou must live!I must! I must!But for what?That I may not lose my soul?My soul is not worthsuch suffering!Then why must I live onin the world,[116]Drag these fettersin my jail?Because, perchance,my own UkraineI shall see again.Again I shall pour outmy words of sorrowTo the green grovesand rich meadows.No family have I of my ownin all Ukraine,Yet the people thereare different from these foreignersI would walk againamong the bright villagesOn the Dnieper’s banksand sing my thoughtsgentle and sad.Grant me,Oh God of mercyThat I may liveto see againThose green meadows,those ancestral tombs.If Thou wilt not grant this,Yet bear my tearsTo my Ukraine.Because, God,I die for her.It may be that I shall liemore lightly in foreign soil[117]When sometimes in Ukrainethey speak of my memory.Carry my tears thenOh God of loving kindness,Or at leastsend hope into my soul.I can think no morewith my poor head,For coldness of deathcomes on meWhen I think that they maybury me in foreign soilAnd bury my thoughts with meAnd none tell about mein the Ukraine.
I count in prison the days and nights
And then forget the count.
How heavily, Oh Lord,
Do these days pass!
And the years flow after them,
Quietly they flow,
Bearing with them
Good and ill.
Everything do they gather
Never do they return.
You need not plead,
Your prayers unanswered fall.
Mid oozy swamps
among the weeds
Year after weary year
has sadly flowed.
Much of something have they taken
From dark store-house of my heart;
Borne it quietly to the sea,
As quietly the sea swallowed it.
Not gold and silver
Did they take from me,
But good years of mine
Freighted with loneliness,[115]
Sorrows written on the heart
With unseen pen.
And a fourth year passes
So gently, so slowly,
The fourth book
of my imprisonment
I start to stitch up,
Embroidering it with tears
Of homesickness
in a foreign land.
Yet such woe
tells itself not in words.
Never, never
in the wide world.
In far away captivity
There are no words
Not even tears,
Just nothingness;
Not even God above thee,
Nothing is there to see,
None with whom to speak,
Not even desire for life.
Yet thou must live!
I must! I must!
But for what?
That I may not lose my soul?
My soul is not worth
such suffering!
Then why must I live on
in the world,[116]
Drag these fetters
in my jail?
Because, perchance,
my own Ukraine
I shall see again.
Again I shall pour out
my words of sorrow
To the green groves
and rich meadows.
No family have I of my own
in all Ukraine,
Yet the people there
are different from these foreigners
I would walk again
among the bright villages
On the Dnieper’s banks
and sing my thoughts
gentle and sad.
Grant me,
Oh God of mercy
That I may live
to see again
Those green meadows,
those ancestral tombs.
If Thou wilt not grant this,
Yet bear my tears
To my Ukraine.
Because, God,
I die for her.
It may be that I shall lie
more lightly in foreign soil[117]
When sometimes in Ukraine
they speak of my memory.
Carry my tears then
Oh God of loving kindness,
Or at least
send hope into my soul.
I can think no more
with my poor head,
For coldness of death
comes on me
When I think that they may
bury me in foreign soil
And bury my thoughts with me
And none tell about me
in the Ukraine.
And yet it may bethat gently through the yearsMy tear-embroidered songsshall fly sometimeAnd fallas dew upon the groundOn the tender heart of youth,And youth shall nod assent.And weep for meMaking mention of me in its prayers.Well, as it will beso it will be.Perhaps ’twill swimPerhaps ’twill wadeYet even if they crucify me for itI’ll still write my verses.
And yet it may be
that gently through the years
My tear-embroidered songs
shall fly sometime
And fall
as dew upon the ground
On the tender heart of youth,
And youth shall nod assent.
And weep for me
Making mention of me in its prayers.
Well, as it will be
so it will be.
Perhaps ’twill swim
Perhaps ’twill wade
Yet even if they crucify me for it
I’ll still write my verses.
[118]