The Dictator

Lenin is dead. Take for his covering a flag blood-red,— Fasten a cap of crimson on his head, Call a dumb priest—lest any prayer be said, Lenin is dead.

The four little daughters of the great white Czar, Lovely as the wind-flowers of a far northern May; Sometimes shy and silent;—just too old to play,— Seeing all the road of life as a radiant way; Tell us, dead man, e'er you pass—tell us, where are they?

The four little daughters of the great white Czar,— What was their crime that their souls were put to flight? They were only little maids dancing in the light, Like the swinging blossoms all of pink and white; Tell us, dead man, where they went—down the aisles of night?

The four little daughters of the great white Czar, How could they have harmed you and bound you foot and hand? They had children's eyes, but brave as any in the land,— Oft perhaps they wondered at their titles long and grand;— Tell us, dead man, why you feared such delicate command?

The four little daughters of the great white Czar,— They are forgotten, as flowers when they fall; And the four sweet names of them none will ever call Down a long green garden—or through a castle hall. Do you dream of them, dead man, underneath your pall?

Lenin is dead. Take for his covering a flag blood-red,— Fasten a cap of crimson on his head, Call a dumb priest—lest any prayer be said— Lenin is dead.