O SACRED Troitsa! when the skies Of morn are blue I lift my eyes To see again in azure air Thy starry domes and turrets fair, And to hear from thy gray cathedral walls The chanted hymn as it swells and falls. Then with the pilgrim train I wait And enter, glad, thy wide-flung gate, To drink of St. Sergius' holy well, That heals the griefs no soul may tell, Or kneel with them at his wondrous shrine, -- His staff and his simple robe beside, -- And trace on my breast the mystic sign, And pray for the peace of the glorified! Then fade thy towers; the music dies; Above me are my native skies, Blue and clear in the August morn, Over the pines and the rustling corn, With a song from brook and breeze and bird Sweet as the hymn in thy cloisters heard, -- And I know the fields are a shrine as fair, For the Lord of the saints is here as there! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...LORD ALCOHOL; SONG by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES AN EPITAPH ON M.H. by CHARLES COTTON MARRIAGE A-LA-MODE: SONG by JOHN DRYDEN THE MOTHER'S LAMENT by ST. CLAIR ADAMS OPEN MY EYES by ALICE E. BAILEY ANNIVERSARIUM BAPTISMI (2) by JOSEPH BEAUMONT THE COMMON LOT by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH |