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...THE CRYSTAL CABINET by WILLIAM BLAKE ST. JOHN'S, CAMBRIDGE; SONNET by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW THE VICTOR AT ANTIETAM [SEPTEMBER 17, 1862] by HERMAN MELVILLE CHELSEA by LILLIAN M. (PETTES) AINSWORTH TRANQUIL HABIT by AUGUSTE ANGELLIER TO THE SHAH (2) by AWHAD AD-DIN 'ALI IBN VAHID MUHAMMAD KHAVARANI WHAT DICK AN' I DID by WILLIAM BARNES |