Classic Poem

Dear Mother-Earth
Of giant-birth,
Yon hills are thy large breasts, and often I
Have climbed to their top nipples, fain to lie
And drink my mother's-milk so near the sky.

But, Mother Earth
Of giant-birth,
Thy mother milk comes curdled thick with woe.
Friends, blood is in the milk whereby we grow,
And life is heavy and death is marvellous slow.

Mark yon hill-stains,
Red, for all rains!
The blood that made them was all shed for us:
The hearts that paid them are all dead for us:
The trees that shade them groan with lead, for us.

O ye hill-sides,
Like giants' brides
Ye sleep in ravine-rumpled draperies,
And weep your springs in tearful memories
Of green bride-robes, now turned to bloody frieze.

Sad furrowed hills
By full-wept rills,
The stainers have decreed the stains shall stay.
What clement hands might wash the stains away
Are chained, to make us rue a mournful day.

O coward hand
Of the Northland,
That after honorable war couldst smite
Cheeks grimed in adverse battle, to wreak spite
For dainty Senators that lagged the fight.

O monstrous crime
Of a sick Time:
— Forever waging war that peace may be
And serving God by cheating on bent knee
And freeing slaves by chaining down the free.

Thou sorrow height
We climb by night,
Hast thou no hiding for a Southern face?
Forever will the Heavens brook disgrace?
Shall Hope sit always cooing to the base?