ESSEXIThy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring,And wait, in supplication’s gentleness,The certain resurrection that shall bringA robe of verdure for their nakedness.Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell,Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coilNow promise, while the veins of nature swell,Eternal recompense to human toil.And when the sunset’s final shades departThe aspiration to completed birthIs sweet and silent; as the soft tears start,We know how wanton and how little worthAre all the passions of our bleeding heartThat vex the awful patience of the earth.IIThine are the large winds and the splendid sunGlutting the spread of heaven to the floorOf waters rhythmic from far shore to shore,And thine the stars, revealing one by one,Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion,The tawny moon that waits below the skies,—Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyesWho watched from Calvary when the Deed was done.And thine the good brown earth that bares its breastTo thy benign October, thine the treesLusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest;And thine the men whos@ blood has glorifiedThy name with Liberty Is divine decrees—The men who loved thy soil and fought and died.IIIToward thine Eastern window when the mornSteals through the silver mesh of silent stars,I come unlaurelled from the strenuous warsWhere men have fought and wept and died forlorn.But here, across the early fields of corn,The living silence dwelleth, and the graySweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of sprayBreathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn.Open thy lattice, for the gage is wonFor which this earth has journeyed though the dustOf shattered systems, cold about the sun;And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled,A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”—And falls like dew God’s pity on the worldGEORGE CABOT LODGE
Thy hills are kneeling in the tardy spring,And wait, in supplication’s gentleness,The certain resurrection that shall bringA robe of verdure for their nakedness.Thy perfumed valleys where the twilights dwell,Thy fields within the sunlight’s living coilNow promise, while the veins of nature swell,Eternal recompense to human toil.And when the sunset’s final shades departThe aspiration to completed birthIs sweet and silent; as the soft tears start,We know how wanton and how little worthAre all the passions of our bleeding heartThat vex the awful patience of the earth.
Thine are the large winds and the splendid sunGlutting the spread of heaven to the floorOf waters rhythmic from far shore to shore,And thine the stars, revealing one by one,Thine the grave, lucent night’s oblivion,The tawny moon that waits below the skies,—Strange as the dawn that smote their blistered eyesWho watched from Calvary when the Deed was done.And thine the good brown earth that bares its breastTo thy benign October, thine the treesLusty with fruitage in the late year’s rest;And thine the men whos@ blood has glorifiedThy name with Liberty Is divine decrees—The men who loved thy soil and fought and died.
Toward thine Eastern window when the mornSteals through the silver mesh of silent stars,I come unlaurelled from the strenuous warsWhere men have fought and wept and died forlorn.But here, across the early fields of corn,The living silence dwelleth, and the graySweet earth-mist, while afar the lisp of sprayBreathes from the ocean like a Triton’s horn.Open thy lattice, for the gage is wonFor which this earth has journeyed though the dustOf shattered systems, cold about the sun;And proved by sin, by mighty lives impearled,A voice cries through the sunrise: “Time is Just!”—And falls like dew God’s pity on the world
GEORGE CABOT LODGE