I.

The Earth is old; Six thousand winters make her heart a-cold; The sceptre slanteth from her palsied hold. She saith, "'Las me! God's word that I was 'good' Is taken back to heaven, From whence when any sound comes, I am riven By some sharp bolt; and now no angel would Descend with sweet dew-silence on my mountains, To glorify the lovely river fountains That gush along their side: I see--O weary change!--I see instead This human wrath and pride, These thrones and tombs, judicial wrong and blood, And bitter words are poured upon mine head-- 'O Earth! thou art a stage for tricks unholy, A church for most remorseful melancholy; Thou art so spoilt, we should forget we had An Eden in thee, wert thou not so sad!' Sweet children, I am old! ye, every one, Do keep me from a portion of my sun. Give praise in change for brightness! That I may shake my hills in infiniteness Of breezy laughter, as in youthful mirth, To hear Earth's sons and daughters praising Earth."