
Stones for Russia by Baker Bronwell
Stones and the silver stab of bayonets, The skilled jab, the clubbed gun Of our northernbred guards: these We have, Russia. A greeting, Russia, to you the groper Struggling out of the pit of centuries, Uprising from primeval death, groping To a dazed, uncertain day; a greeting, Russia, drunken one, drunken with miseryA greeting with stones!