Classic Poem

" I am old, " said the earth, " I am old,
I am wearied in all my frame;
I am stiff with the northern cold;
I am seared by the southern flame;
I am worn with the ways of men;
Death reaps them down, like corn,
They are hid in my breast, and then,
Straightway, new men are born.
And their laughter is all in vain,
For they count the days and years;
And they babble of loss and gain,
And they drench me with their tears.
Is there never an end of all?
Can a great world never die,
And rest, like a mighty ball,
In the depth of the awful sky;
Or, some day, feel, through sea and sod,
New, quickening touch, from the hand of God? "

" I am old, " said the earth, " I am old,
I am wearied in all my frame;
I am stiff with the northern cold;
I am seared by the southern flame;
I am worn with the ways of men;
Death reaps them down, like corn,
They are hid in my breast, and then,
Straightway, new men are born.
And their laughter is all in vain,
For they count the days and years;
And they babble of loss and gain,
And they drench me with their tears.
Is there never an end of all?
Can a great world never die,
And rest, like a mighty ball,
In the depth of the awful sky;
Or, some day, feel, through sea and sod,
New, quickening touch, from the hand of God? "