Classic Poem

Sprung molten from the fierce embrace of stars,
Graven by hungry seas and winds and fires--
Lo, my poor frame terrene with all its scars
Lies arid like the dross of blasted pyres!
Opulent fields and fruits, and forest tracts--
O fourfold largess of the seasons! grain,
Once on this bosom waving! cataracts
Poured from my heart!--each precious living vein
Of gold or gleaming mineral, and flower
And grass and mated creature that I gave
To man unstinted from my royal dower,
Lie cold in this my never-sated grave.
And he, my noblest offspring, whom my breasts
Suckled when ushered from my fertile womb,
Lies low in dark and underearthen nests,
Calling on slow and silent-footed doom.
No more, no more the joyous spring shall thaw
These crystal cere-cloths from my withered heart,--
No more shall Life his golden pageant draw,
Nor ever a seed shall spring nor a flower start.