Classic Poem

Gaea, Mother Gaea, now at last,
Wearied with too much seeking, here I cast
My soul, my heart, my body down on thee!
Dust of thy dust, canst thou not mother me?

Not as an infant weeping do I come;
These tears are tears of battle; like a drum
Struck by wild fighting hands my temples throb;
Sob of the breathless swordsman is my sob,
Cry of the charging spearman is my cry!

O Mother, not as one who craves to die
I fall upon thee panting. Fierce as hate,
Strong as a tiger fighting for his mate,
Soul-thewed and eager for yet one more fray —
O Gaea, Mother Gaea, thus I pray!

Have I not battled well?
My sword has ripped the gloom from many a hell
To let the sweet day kiss my anguished brow!
O, I have begged no favors until now;
Have asked no pity, though I bit the dust;

For always in my blood the battle-lust
Flung awful sword-songs down my days and nights,
But now at last of all my golden fights
The greatest fight is on me — and I pray.
O let my prayer enfold thee as the day,
Crush down upon thee as the murky night,
Rush over thee a thunder-gust, alight
With swift electric blades! Nay, let it be
As rain flung down upon the breast of thee!
With something of the old Uranian fire
I kiss upon thee all my deep desire.

If ever in the silence round about,
Thy scarlet blossoms smote me as a shout;
If ever I have loved thee, pressed my face
Close to thy bosom in a lonesome place
And breathed thy breath with more than lover's breathing;
If ever in the spring, thy great trees, seething
With hopeful juices, felt my worship-kiss —
Grant thou the prayer that struggles out of this,
My first blood-cry for succor in a fight!

Alone I shouldered up the crushing night,
Alone I flung about me halls of day,
Unmated went I fighting on my way,
Lured on by some far-distant final good,
Unwarmed by grudging fires of bitter wood,
Feeding my hunger with my tiger heart.
Mother of things that yearn and grow, thou art!
The Titan brood sucked battle from thy paps!
O Mother mine, sweet-breasted with warm saps,
Once more Antaeus touches thee for strength!
My victories assail me! Now at length
My lawless isolation dies away!
For Mother, giving Mother, like the day
Flung down from midnight, she who was to be
Floods all the brooding thunder-glooms of me!
And in the noon-glow that her face hath wrought,
Stands forth the one great foe I have not fought —
The close-ranked cohorts of my selfish heart.

Suckler of virile fighting things thou art!
Breathe in me something of the tireless sea;
The urge of mighty rivers breathe in me!
Cloak me with purple like thy haughty peaks;
O arm me as a wind-flung cloud that wreaks
Hell-furies down the midnight battle-murk!
Fit me to do this utmost warrior's work —
To face myself and conquer!


Mother dear,
Thou seemest a woman in this silence here;
And 'tis thy daughter who hath come to me
With all the wise, sad mother-heart of thee,
Thy luring wonder and immensity!
For in her face strong sweet earth-passions brood:
I feel them as in some wild solitude
The love-sweet panting summer's yearning-pain.

Teach me the passion of the wooing rain!
Teach me to fold her like a summer day —
To kiss her in the great good giant way,
As Uranus amid the cosmic dawn!

Now all the mad spring revelling is gone,
And comes the fruiting summer! Let me be
Deep-rooted in thy goodness as a tree,
Strong in the storms with skyward blossomings!
Teach me the virile trust of growing things,
The wisdom of slow fruiting in the sun!

I would be joyous as the winds that run
Light footed on the wheatfields. O for her,
I would be gentle as the winds that stir
The forest in the noon hush. Lift me up!
Fill all my soul with kindness as a cup
With cool and bubbling waters! Mother dear,
Gaea, great Gaea, 'tis thy son — O hear!