BreshkovskayaBy Elsa Barker(Contemporary American poet and novelist. Author “The Frozen Grail,” etc. The following is said to be the strongest of her poems. It was written during Breshkovskaya’s last exile, before the Russian revolution released her.)
By Elsa Barker
(Contemporary American poet and novelist. Author “The Frozen Grail,” etc. The following is said to be the strongest of her poems. It was written during Breshkovskaya’s last exile, before the Russian revolution released her.)
How narrow seems the round of ladies’ livesAnd ladies’ duties in their smiling world,The day this Titan woman, gray with years,Goes out across the void to prove her soul!Brief are the pains of motherhood that endIn motherhood’s long joy; but she has borneThe age-long travail of a cause that liesStill-born at last on History’s cold lap.And yet she rests not; yet she will not drinkThe cup of peace held to her parching lipsBy smug Dishonor’s hand. Nay, forth she fares,Old and alone, on exile’s rocky road—That well-worn road with snows incarnadinedBy blood-drops from her feet long years agone.Mother of power, my soul goes out to youAs a strong swimmer goes to meet the seaUpon whose vastness he is like a leaf.What are the ends and purposes of song,Save as a bugle at the lips of LifeTo sound reveille to a drowsing worldWhen some great deed is rising like the sun?Where are those others whom your deeds inspiredTo deeds and words that were themselves a deed?Those who believe in death have gone with deathTo the gray crags of immortality;Those who believed in life have gone with lifeTo the red halls of spiritual death.And you? But what is death or life to you?Only a weapon in the hand of faithTo cleave a way for beings yet unbornTo a far freedom you will never share!Freedom of body is an empty shellWherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves;For Freedom is a spirit and she dwellsAs often in a jail as on the hills.In all the world this day there is no soulFreer than you, Breshkovskaya, as you standFacing the future in your narrow cell.For you are free of self and free of fear,Those twin-born shades that lie in wait for manWhen he steps out upon the wind-blown roadThat leads to human greatness and to pain.Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—Your delicate hand misshapen from the nightsIn Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent backThat long has borne the burdens of the race,The exile’s bundle, and upon your feetStrap the worn sandles of a tireless faith.You are too great for pity. After youWe send not sobs, but songs; and all our daysWe shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.
How narrow seems the round of ladies’ livesAnd ladies’ duties in their smiling world,The day this Titan woman, gray with years,Goes out across the void to prove her soul!Brief are the pains of motherhood that endIn motherhood’s long joy; but she has borneThe age-long travail of a cause that liesStill-born at last on History’s cold lap.And yet she rests not; yet she will not drinkThe cup of peace held to her parching lipsBy smug Dishonor’s hand. Nay, forth she fares,Old and alone, on exile’s rocky road—That well-worn road with snows incarnadinedBy blood-drops from her feet long years agone.Mother of power, my soul goes out to youAs a strong swimmer goes to meet the seaUpon whose vastness he is like a leaf.What are the ends and purposes of song,Save as a bugle at the lips of LifeTo sound reveille to a drowsing worldWhen some great deed is rising like the sun?Where are those others whom your deeds inspiredTo deeds and words that were themselves a deed?Those who believe in death have gone with deathTo the gray crags of immortality;Those who believed in life have gone with lifeTo the red halls of spiritual death.And you? But what is death or life to you?Only a weapon in the hand of faithTo cleave a way for beings yet unbornTo a far freedom you will never share!Freedom of body is an empty shellWherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves;For Freedom is a spirit and she dwellsAs often in a jail as on the hills.In all the world this day there is no soulFreer than you, Breshkovskaya, as you standFacing the future in your narrow cell.For you are free of self and free of fear,Those twin-born shades that lie in wait for manWhen he steps out upon the wind-blown roadThat leads to human greatness and to pain.Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—Your delicate hand misshapen from the nightsIn Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent backThat long has borne the burdens of the race,The exile’s bundle, and upon your feetStrap the worn sandles of a tireless faith.You are too great for pity. After youWe send not sobs, but songs; and all our daysWe shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.
How narrow seems the round of ladies’ livesAnd ladies’ duties in their smiling world,The day this Titan woman, gray with years,Goes out across the void to prove her soul!Brief are the pains of motherhood that endIn motherhood’s long joy; but she has borneThe age-long travail of a cause that liesStill-born at last on History’s cold lap.And yet she rests not; yet she will not drinkThe cup of peace held to her parching lipsBy smug Dishonor’s hand. Nay, forth she fares,Old and alone, on exile’s rocky road—That well-worn road with snows incarnadinedBy blood-drops from her feet long years agone.
How narrow seems the round of ladies’ lives
And ladies’ duties in their smiling world,
The day this Titan woman, gray with years,
Goes out across the void to prove her soul!
Brief are the pains of motherhood that end
In motherhood’s long joy; but she has borne
The age-long travail of a cause that lies
Still-born at last on History’s cold lap.
And yet she rests not; yet she will not drink
The cup of peace held to her parching lips
By smug Dishonor’s hand. Nay, forth she fares,
Old and alone, on exile’s rocky road—
That well-worn road with snows incarnadined
By blood-drops from her feet long years agone.
Mother of power, my soul goes out to youAs a strong swimmer goes to meet the seaUpon whose vastness he is like a leaf.What are the ends and purposes of song,Save as a bugle at the lips of LifeTo sound reveille to a drowsing worldWhen some great deed is rising like the sun?Where are those others whom your deeds inspiredTo deeds and words that were themselves a deed?Those who believe in death have gone with deathTo the gray crags of immortality;Those who believed in life have gone with lifeTo the red halls of spiritual death.
Mother of power, my soul goes out to you
As a strong swimmer goes to meet the sea
Upon whose vastness he is like a leaf.
What are the ends and purposes of song,
Save as a bugle at the lips of Life
To sound reveille to a drowsing world
When some great deed is rising like the sun?
Where are those others whom your deeds inspired
To deeds and words that were themselves a deed?
Those who believe in death have gone with death
To the gray crags of immortality;
Those who believed in life have gone with life
To the red halls of spiritual death.
And you? But what is death or life to you?Only a weapon in the hand of faithTo cleave a way for beings yet unbornTo a far freedom you will never share!Freedom of body is an empty shellWherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves;For Freedom is a spirit and she dwellsAs often in a jail as on the hills.In all the world this day there is no soulFreer than you, Breshkovskaya, as you standFacing the future in your narrow cell.For you are free of self and free of fear,Those twin-born shades that lie in wait for manWhen he steps out upon the wind-blown roadThat leads to human greatness and to pain.Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—Your delicate hand misshapen from the nightsIn Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent backThat long has borne the burdens of the race,The exile’s bundle, and upon your feetStrap the worn sandles of a tireless faith.You are too great for pity. After youWe send not sobs, but songs; and all our daysWe shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.
And you? But what is death or life to you?
Only a weapon in the hand of faith
To cleave a way for beings yet unborn
To a far freedom you will never share!
Freedom of body is an empty shell
Wherein men crawl whose souls are held with gyves;
For Freedom is a spirit and she dwells
As often in a jail as on the hills.
In all the world this day there is no soul
Freer than you, Breshkovskaya, as you stand
Facing the future in your narrow cell.
For you are free of self and free of fear,
Those twin-born shades that lie in wait for man
When he steps out upon the wind-blown road
That leads to human greatness and to pain.
Take in your hand once more the pilgrim’s staff—
Your delicate hand misshapen from the nights
In Kara’s mines; bind on your unbent back
That long has borne the burdens of the race,
The exile’s bundle, and upon your feet
Strap the worn sandles of a tireless faith.
You are too great for pity. After you
We send not sobs, but songs; and all our days
We shall walk bravelier knowing where you are.