Its day's hard business done, the score to the good accompt.
Creatures of forest and mead, Earth's essays in being, all kinds
Bound by the navel-knot to the Mother, never astray,
They in the ear upon ground will pour their intuitive minds,
Cut man's tangles for Earth's first broad rectilinear way:
Admonishing loftier reaches, the rich
adventurous shoots,
Pushes of tentative curves, embryonic upwreathings in air;
Not always the sprouts of Earth's root-Laws preserving her brutes;
Oft but our
primitive hungers licentious in fine and fair.
Yet the like
aerial growths may chance be the
delicate sprays,
Infant of Earth's most
urgent in sap, her fierier zeal
For entry on Life's upper fields: and soul thus flourishing pays
The martyr's
penance, mark for brutish in man to heel.
Her, from a
nerveless well among
stagnant pools of the dry,
Through her good aim at
divine, shall
commune with Earth remake;
Fraternal unto sororial, her, where abashed she may lie,
Divinest of man shall clasp; a world out of darkness awake,
As it were with the Resurrection's eyelids uplifted, to see
Honour in shame, in substance the spirit, in that dry fount
Jets of the songful ascending silvery-bright water-tree
Spout, with our Earth's unbaffled res
urgent desire for the mount,
Though broken at intervals, clipped, and
barren in
seeming it be.
For this at our nature arises rejuvenescent from Earth,
However respersive the blow and nigh on
infernal the fall,
The chastisement drawn down on us merited: are we of worth
Amid our satanic excrescences, this, for the less than a call,
Will Earth reprime, man
cherish; the God who is in us and round,
Consenting, the God there seen. Impiety speaks despair;
Religion the
virtue of serving as things of the furrowy ground,
Debtors for
breath while
breath with our fellows in service we
share.
Not such of the crowned discrowned
Can Earth or
humanity spare;
Such not the God let die.
III
Eastward of Paris morn is high;
And darkness on that Eastward side
The heart of France beholds: a thorn
Is in her frame where shines the morn:
A rigid wave usurps her sky,
With eagle crest and eagle-eyed
To scan what wormy wrinkles hint
Her forces
gathering: she the thrown
From station, lopped of an arm, astounded, lone,
Reading late History as a foul misprint:
Imperial, Angelical,
At
strife commingled in her frame convulsed;
Shame of her broken sword, a ravening gall;
Pain of the limb where once her warm blood pulsed;
These
tortures to
distract her underneath
Her whelmed Aurora's shade. But in that space
When lay she dumb beside her trampled wreath,
Like an unburied body mid the tombs,
Feeling against her heart life's bitter probe
For life, she saw how children of her race,
The many sober sons and daughters, plied,
By
cottage lamplight through the water-globe,
By simmering stew-pots, by the serious looms,
Afield, in factories, with the birds astir,
Their
nimble feet and fingers; not denied
Refreshful
chatter,
laughter, galliard songs.
So like Earth's indestructible they were,
That wrestling with its
anguish rose her pride,
To feel where in each breast the thought of her,
On whom the
circle Hours laid leaded thongs,
Was
constant;
spoken sometimes in low tone
At lip or in a fluttered look,
A shortened
breath: and they were her loved own;
Nor ever did they waste their strength with tears,
For pity of the weeper, nor rebuke,
Though
mainly they were charged to pay her debt,