ONCE more this Autumn-earth is ripe,
Parturient of another type.
While with the Past old nations merge
His foot is on the Future’s verge.
They watch him, as they huddle, pent,
Striding a spacious continent,
Above the level desert’s marge
Looming in his aloofness large.
No flower with fragile sweetness graced—
A lank weed wrestling with the waste;
Pallid of face and gaunt of limb,
The sweetness withered out of him;