Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/157



The day is full of scent and piercing light I am blinded by the beauty of the morn, Upon the fields now restless waves alight Of grains that from this fertile land were born.

My native land! I wish my soul could swell With a tourist’s joy and nothing else beside. To think is loathsome Perhaps it is as well That to this land my heart strings are not tied.

I greet it not with love but with a sneer! A local townsman burdened with his own weight Approaches slowly in his Sunday gear, With his heavy breathing, overfattened mate

It is quite likely they were born and reared Here, where they spent their blunt-edged joys and strife. Peopled few homes with a progeny they steered Until they too were capable of life

And when in years will end their earthly toil In peace, contentment they will close their eyes And gratefully, this bit of native soil Their elements in death will fertilize

Disgust with my inaction e’er increases For work I ne’er had love or high esteem. Oh if I could destroy and tear to pieces Each obligation, aim, or wasted dream.

To start anew ’twould be a vain endeavor When disappointment curses all I do And when a hand, no sooner raised, falls ever Back in my lap ere it can work anew

And this I know Were I born a woman instead I would expose my cheeks to the world’s sleet With a brazen smile and skirts raised o’er my head I would go and sell my body in the street