WIDE acres you inherit, And graveyards populous; A tameless nomad spirit Is Beauty's fate for us. For us a daily treason, New camp-grounds every day. The inexorable prison We cheat, and break away. Trust in each shrouded story, Each far-off marvel's prize, The springtime's emerald glory, The length and breadth of skies. Artists, with dreams for horses, Pasture them all around! Escape! Sow with new forces, Then fly the fallow ground. Hurl from your flooding numbers Your hordes in hurricanes Where the low valley slumbers And slaves are proud of chains. Trample their paradises, Attila! Waste anew! And where your bright star rises, The steppe will bud for you! |