O THE splendor of the city, When the sun is in the west! Ruddy gold on spire and belfry, Gold on Moskwa's placid breast; Till the twilight soft and sombre Falls on wall and street and square, And the domes and towers in shadow Stand like silent monks at prayer. 'T is the hour for dream and legend: Meet me by the Sacred Gate! We will watch the crowd go by us; We will stories old relate; Till the bugle of the barracks Calls the soldier to repose, And from off the steppe to northward Chill the wind of midnight blows. |