Classic Poem

TWILIGHTS OF THE GODS AND THE FOLK

We nameless, that have labour'd in the dumb
patience of more than thousand years, whose task
what harvest claim'd our faith stay'd not to ask,
must all we perish ere the sabbath come?

The dawn was chill about our going forth
each morn, and black the earth in that damp hour
with presage of a ne'er-vouchsafed flower,
and bitter in our eyes the sleety north.

Harsh mother, thou hast drunk our soul unborn;
take now this outworn flesh and our despair:
within thy lap at least we shall not care

if here no grove of pillar'd arches warn
some wanderer above our moulder'd bones
how once we dream'd beside their uncouth stones.