O the splendor of the city,
When the sun is in the west!
Ruddy gold on spire and belfry,
Gold on Moskwa's placid breast;
Till the twilight, soft and sombre,
Falls on wall and street and square,
And the domes and towers, in shadow,
Stand like silent monks at prayer.
'T is the hour for dreams and phantoms;—
Meet me by the Sacred Gate!
Ah, what ghostly forms may enter
When the night is wearing late!
Czars may pass in haughty penance;
Khans bewail their Kremlin gone;
Boris, Timur, haunt the fortress
Till the east is pale with dawn.