Classic Poem

[ Poland ]

Oh, not this year comes spring
To the darkened lands,
Gutted with fire, laid waste
By ravaging hands.

Not this year, not here,
Comes the glad rebirth
Of mating blooms and wings
And pregnant earth.

Not here will fields be sweet
With summer's breath: —
Watered are they with blood,
Deep-sown with death!

These fields — no sound they hear
Save women's weeping
And children's starving cries
And anguish unsleeping.

Oh, bitter the harvest here
(Far off, but fated,)
Of hate that will not be assuaged
Till vengeance be sated, —

Till comes at length the hour
(Too long delayed)
When the grim score shall be,
To the last tear, paid.