THE CRY OF EARTH

The Season speaks this year of life

Confusing words of strife,

Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers

In all Earth's bowers.

With heart of Jael, face of Ruth,

She goes her way uncouth

Through hills and fields, where fog and sunset seem

Wild smoke and steam.

Around her, spotted as a leopard skin,

She draws her cloak of whin,

And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glare

Wild on her hair.

Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burn

With frost; her moony urn

She lifts, where Death,‘ mid driving stress and storm,

Rears his gaunt form.

And all night long she seems to say

“Come forth, my Winds, and slay!—”

And everywhere is heard the wailing cry

Of dreams that die.