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THE KOBZAR OR THE UKRAINE
117
When sometimes in Ukraine
they speak of my memory.
Carry my tears then
Oh God of loving kindness,
Or at least
send hope into my soul.
I can think no more
with my poor head.
For coldness of death
comes on me
When I think that they may
bury me in foreign soil
And bury my thoughts with me
And none tell about me
in the Ukraine.
And yet it may be
that gently through the years
My tear-embroidered songs
shall fly sometime
And fall
as dew upon the ground
On the tender heart of youth.
And youth shall nod assent.
And weep for me
Making mention of me in its prayers.
Well, as it will be
so it will be.
Perhaps 'twill swim
Perhaps 'twill wade
Yet even if they crucify me for it
I'll still write my verses.
