Page:The Pot of Earth.pdf/56

 In March, when the snow melted, he was born. She lay quiet in the bed. She lay still, Dying. Under the iron rumble Of the streets she heard the rolling Boulders that the flood tides tumble Climbing sea by sea the shoaling Ledges,—she could hear the tolling Sea. She lay alone there.

In the morning They came and went about her, Moving through the room. She asked them Whispering. They told her, He is here. She said, Who is it, Who is it that is born, that is here? She said, Do you not know him? Have you seen the green blades gathered?