Poetry

saves,
Then in the Lavra’s awesome caves
She seeks the blessed wealth she craves.

From St. John she buys a magic cap,
For Mark she bears it;
And when he wears it,
For never a headache need he give e’er a rap.
And then St. Barbara gives her a ring,
To her new daughter back to bring.

’Fore all the saints
she makes prostrations,
Then home returns
having paid her oblations.

She has come back.
Fair Kate with Mark makes haste to meet her,
Far beyond the gate they greet her,
Then into the house they bring her,
Draw her to the table there
Quickly spread with choicest fare.
Her news of Kiev they now request,
While Kate arranges her couch for rest.

“Why do they love me,
Why this respect?
Dear God above me,
Do they suspect?
Nay, that’s not so,
’Tis just goodness, I know.”

And still the Servant her secret kept,
Yet from the hurt of her penance wept.

VI

Three times have the waters frozen
Thrice thawed at the touch of spring
Three times did the Servant
From Kiev her store of blessings bring.
And each time gentle Katherine,
As daughter, set her on her way,
A fourth time led her by the mounds
Where many dear departed lay.
Then prayed to God for her safe return,
For whom in absence her heart would yearn.

It was the Sunday of the Virgin,
Old Trophimus sat in garments white,
On the bench, in wide straw hat,
All amid the sunshine bright.
Before him with a little dog
His frolicsome grandson played,
The while his little granddaughter
Was in her mother’s garb arrayed.
Smiling he welcomed her as matron;
For so at “visitors” they played.

“But what did you do with the visitor’s cake?
Did somebody steal it in the wood,
Or perhaps you’ve simply forgotten to bake?”
For so they talked in lightsome mood.

But see⁠—Who comes?
’Tis their Anna at the door!
Run old and young! Who’ll come before?
But Anna waits not their welcome wordy.

“Is Mark at home, or still on journey?”

“He’s off on journey long enough,”
Says the old man in accents gruff.

With pain the Servant sadly saith,
“Home have I come with failing breath;
Nor ’mid strangers would I wait for death.
May I but live my Mark to see,
For something grievously weighs on me.”

From little bag the children’s gifts
She takes. There’s crosses and amulets.
For Irene is of beads a string,
And pictures too, and for Karpon
A nightingale to sweetly sing,
Toy horses and a wagon.
A fourth time she brings a ring
From St. Barbara to Katherine.
Next the old man’s gift she handles,
It’s just three holy waxen candles.

For Mark and herself
she nothing brought;
For want of money
she nothing bought.

For want of strength
more funds to earn,
Half a bun was her wealth
on her return.
As to how to divide it
Let the babes decide it.

VII

She enters now the house so sweet,
And daughter Katherine bathes her feet.
Then sets her down to dine in state,
But my Anna nor drank nor ate.

“Katherine!
When is our Sunday?”

“After tomorrow’s the day.”
“Prayers for the dead soon will we need
Such as St. Nicholas may heed.
Then we must an offering pay,
For Mark tarries on the way.
Perchance somewhere,
from our vision hid,
Sickness has ta’en him
which God forbid.”
The tears dropped down
from the sad old eyes,
So wearily did she
from the table rise.

“Katherine,
My race is run,
All my earthly tasks are done.
My powers no longer I command
Nor on my feet have strength to stand.
And yet, my Kate, how can I die
While in this dear warm home I lie?”

The sickness harder grows amain,
For her the sacred host’s appointed,
She’s been with holy oils anointed,
Yet nought relieves her pain.
Old Trophim’ in courtyard walks a-ring
Moving like a stricken thing.
Katherine, for the suff’rers sake
Doth never rest for her eyelids take.
And even the owls upon the roof
Of coming evil tell the proof.

The suff’rer now, each day, each hour,
Whispers the question, with waning power
“Daughter Katherine, is Mark yet here?
So struggle I with doubt and fear,
Did I but know I’d see him for sure
Through all my pain I might endure.”

VIII

Now Mark comes on with the caravan
Singing blithely as he can.
To the inns he makes no speed,
Quietly lets the oxen feed.
Mark brings home for Katherine
Precious cloth of substance rich;
For father dear, a girdle sewn
Of silk so red.
For Servant Anne
a gold cloth bonnet
To deck her head,
And kerchief, too
with white lace on it.
For the children are shoes
with figs and grapes.
There’s gifts for all,
there’s none escapes.
For all he brings
red wine, so fine,
From great old city
of Constantine.
There’s buckets three
in each barrel put on.
And caviar
from the river Don.
Such gifts he has
in his wagon there,
Nor knows the sorrow
his loved ones bear.
On comes Mark,
knows not of worry;
But he’s come
Give God the glory!
The gate he opens,
Praising God.

“Hear’st thou, Katherine?
Run to meet him!
Already he’s come,
Haste to greet him!
Quickly bring him in to me.
Glory to Thee, my Saviour dear,
All the strength has come from Thee.”

And she “Our Father” softly said
Just as if in dream she read.
The old man the team unyokes,
Lays away the carven yokes.
Kate at her husband strangely looks.

“Where’s Anna, Katherine?
I’ve been careless!
She’s not dead?”

“No, not dead,
But very sick and calls for thee.”

On the threshold Mark appears,
Standing there as torn by fears.
But Anna whispers, “Be not afraid,
Glory to God, Who my fears allayed.

Go forth, Katherine,
though I love you well,
I’ve something to ask him,
something to tell.”

From the place
fair Katherine went;
While Mark his head
o’er the Servant bent.
“Mark, look at me,
Look at me well!
A secret now I have to tell.
On this faded form
set no longer store,
No servant, I, nor Anna more,
I am⁠—”
Came silence dumb,
Nor yet guessed Mark
What was to come.

Yet once again her eyelids raised
Into his eyes she deeply gazed
’Mid gathering tears.

“I from thee forgiveness pray;
I’ve penance offered day by day
All my life to serve another.
Forgive me, son, of me,
For I⁠—am thy mother.”

She ceased to speak.
A sudden faintness
Mark did take:
It seemed the earth
itself did shake.
He roused⁠—
and to his mother crept,
But the mother
forever slept.

Caucasus8

Beyond the hills are mightier hills,
Cloud mountains o’er them rise,
Red, red have flowed their streams and rills,
They’re sown with human woes and sighs.

There long ago in days of old
Olympus’ Czar, the angry Jove,
His wrath did