Page:The Book of the Homeless (New York, Charles Scribner's Sons, 1916).djvu/35



is the land that fathered, nourished, poured The sap of a strong race into your veins,— Land of wide tilth, of farms and granaries stored, And old towers chiming over peaceful plains?

It is become a vision, barred away Like light in cloud, a memory, a belief. On those lost plains the Glory of yesterday Builds her dark towers for the bells of Grief.

It is become a splendour-circled name For all the world. A torch against the skies Burns from that blood-spot, the unpardoned shame Of them that conquered: but your homeless eyes

See rather some brown pond by a white wall, Red cattle crowding in the rutty lane, Some garden where the hollyhocks were tall In the Augusts that shall never be again.

There your thoughts cling as the long-thrusting root Clings in the ground; your orphaned hearts are there. O mates of sunburnt earth, your love is mute But strong like thirst and deeper than despair.

You have endured what pity can but grope To feel; into that darkness enters none. We have but hands to help: yours is the hope Whose silent courage rises with the sun.

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