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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 resurgent 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,




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