Harriet Monroe, ed. (1860–1936). The New Poetry: An Anthology. 1917.
The ConquerorJames Rorty
I
What, shall Death’s black flail,
Forever swinging, lift and fall
Upon these sullen lands
That were so marvellously ripe for love?
What, shall that shrill fury Fear—
Crazed, crazed, forever crazed—
Run screeching down these sober hazel lanes,
And no one bid her hush?
What, shall man,
Forever wailing “God!” and “God!”
Beat like a sick child
Upon earth’s patient breasts?
I have seen
Green acres marching like the sea,
Climbing the ridges,
Riding the hill-tops,
Drawing strength from the warm mist
That wraps the valleys.
The red sun lift his battered shield
From out earth’s eastern thunders
And bask amid the corn-tops’ gold;
Until the dawn-wind trumpets from the height
And bids each meadow fling abroad
The yellow waving banners of the corn.
Deep in the cool green twilight of the corn
A king’s sword rusting;
How the good red earth
Had sucked its venom!
How the sprawling pumpkin wrapped
The jewelled scabbard in her lewd embrace!
The while I heard
From every clod, from every stalk and blade
A myriad insect voices fifing, “Victory!”