by Conrad Aiken
Offering his unearthly ghost to quarry;
And the fields, themselves to harry
Resume, harvesters. The treasure is full bronze
Which you will garner for the Lady, and the moon
Could tinge it no yellower than does this noon;
But the gray will quench it shortly-the fields, men, stones
Pluck fast, dreamers; prove as you amble slowly
Not less than men, not wholly.
Bare the arm too, dainty youths, bend the knees
Under bronze burdens. And by an autumn tone
As by a gray, as by a green, you will have known
Your famous Lady's image; for so have these.
And if one say that easily will your hands
More prosper in other lands,
Angry as wasp-music be your cry then:
"Forsake the Proud Lady, of the heart of fire,
The look of snow, to the praise of a dwindled choir,
Song of degenerate specters that were men?
The sons of the fathers shall keep her, worthy of
What these have done in love."
True, it is said of our Lady, she ageth.
But see, if you peep shrewdly, she hath not stooped;
Take no thought of her servitors that have dropped,
For we are nothing; and if one talk of death
Why, the ribs of the earth subsist frail as a breath
If but God wearieth.
Last updated March 03, 2023