The soldiers lie upon the snow, br That no longer gyrates under the spinning lights br Night juggles in her fat black hands. br They will not babble any more secrets to loose-mouthed br nights br Expanding in golden auras, br While sleigh-bells jingle like new coins the darkness br shuffles . . . br They will not drink any more wine— br Wine of the Romanoffs, br Jewelled wine br The secret years worked slowly at br Till it was wrought to fire, br As stones are faceted br Until they give out light. br The soldiers lie very still. br Their shadows have shrunk up close br As toads shrink under a stone; br And night and silence, br The ancient cronies, br Foregather above them. br br But still over the snow, that is white as a ram's fleece, br Arms swing like scythes . . . br And shadows in austere lines br Sway in a monstrous and mysterious ritual— br Shadows of the Kronstad sailors br Pouring blood and wine. . . br Wine br Spurting out of flagons in a spray of amethyst and gold, br Creeping in purple sluices; br Wine br And blood in thin bright streams br Besprinkling the immaculate snow; br Blood, high-powered with the heat of old vineyards, br Boring . . . into the cool snow . . . br Blood and wine br Mingling in bright pools br That suck at the lights of Petrograd br As dying eyes br Suck in their last sunset. br br The night has a rare savor. br Out of the snow-piles—altar-high and colored as by a br rosy sacrifice— Scented vapor br Ascends in a pale incense . . . br Faint astringent perfume br Of blood and wine.