True meaning lurks within this spring,
More lively than the sparrows' sweep,
Unvoiced the song that my soul sings,
Untouched the light that my soul keeps.
And thinking, writing, otherwise,
In octave loud amidst the choirs,
A booming voice in wintry guise,
Shall liberate once-captured shires.
My homeland's breath in springtime shift
Shall wash away the winter's trace,
And blackest lines of tears shall lift,
From Slavdom's crying eyes and face.
Each blade of grass is primed to stir,
As ancient Prague owns silent streets,
So sinuous these streets confer,
But they will play as ravines meet.
Moravian tales and Czech respite
And Serbs that talk of springtime swoon,
Have ripped away the shroud of might,
And buds beneath the snow shall bloom.
And all shall bathe in glorious haze,
Akin to tendrils on wall panes
Of gilded chambers, Boyar days,
And Fool Basil, blessed in chains.
For night—owls and for dreamers past,
Our Moscow has no peer on earth.
It is our home, our first and last,
Our century's light, our endless birth.