Dear Publishers, I Here Surrender

Dear publishers, I here surrender To feelings new and opportune. I'm learning how in verse to render Old Russia reared as a commune. What matter if in words that falter My pencil whispered to the page And, half-awake, my heart sang hoarsely, Not fathoming our joyous age? With the perception of a poet You'll read my thoughts, nor find it strange That in the land of Soviet power The language people write should change. My bold endeavour you'll acknowledge And not in mockery engage Simply because in words that falter My pencil whispered to the page.