Page:The Poet in the Desert.djvu/82



The ripe and plenteous fruiting of the year

When, as a mother at evening calls to her children,

"Come," So Earth calls to every one of her offspring, "Come unto me. I will feed you all. "Not one of you shall lie down hungry." Oh, what to me is the whisper of the Forest, Or the tinkling wheel in the blackbird's throat. And all the benediction of the valleys, While thousands die hungry and athirst upon the stones

of the city?

TRUTH: Nature has builded her house marvelously ; But Man has cast out his brother. And drained him into the slums as poisonous dregs.

POET:

The city is a monster, powerful, restless, sinuous ; terrify- ing, vague, vast, mysterious, mystic, relentless ; not yet beautiful;

Lying upon carrion as a monster lion.

Roaring ; devouring ; sullenly growling ;

Devouring its prey under the stars, indifferent.

XIV. POET: Each seed, like a winged messenger of Time, voyages the

Ages. From the polished chestnut, ever the wide-spreading

chestnut-tree, Generous of shade and food ;

And from the brown smoke of the puff-ball, forever Pearls along the Morning pathway Amid the threaded diamonds of the Moon-woven

gossamer. Dewy sheets spread by the lowly spiders.

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