Classic Poem

Now at the end, neighbor,
Do you not see?
In the gray light of our late awaking,
How even he
Who brought this doom to be,
He too is ours,
And of our making?

We that sat by, neighbor,
We that were still;
That gave our souls to the weaving, the baking;
Veiling our foreheads
Under his will;
Still singing lullaby over heart-breaking.

There in the fields
We ploughed at his need; —
And the bright-sown field of the stars, we left fallow.
To the small weed
We gave heavy heed;
While the Light pined,
That was ours to hallow! —

Praising, — praising,
His conquering hands;
And his wrath; and his spoils, at his coming and going! —
The strength of his limb,
As the glory of him; —
We, the well-knowing.

We that knew well
Of Life, in the giving;
Costly to build, neighbor;
Costly with living.
He, from a babe,
Eager for taking
All of the perilous gifts of our making; —
Swift, — skilled, at the breaking!

Were we not those,
Woman and mother,
Who stripped too well
The thorns from his rose?
Who gave our all,
Even as he chose, —
Into the widening grasp of his hand?
Though he be slayer, at last, of his brother,
How should he understand? ...

Here, at the end
Of the light of our forsaking,
Is not even he,
Who would be lord,
With the fire and the sword,
Still our man-child? —
Ours, and our making?

We that obeyed, —
Woman and wife!
We that sat dumb;
We that were lowly!
While all the breath and the voices of Life,
All things that are, —
From stubble to star, —
Sang, — Holy , holy ,
Holy ...