III.

Still hearkening ever to that low heart-beat Of sorrowing earth, whose flowers fade in death, Whose silver-threaded rills grow faint for breath, Whose wounded birds cry out beneath thy feet. Not deaf thy human ear to any plaint Of our sad mother whom her sons make weep— Breaking with cries of hate her quiet sleep, Crowding in sunless ways their brothers faint. Nor dumb thy poet-voice to speak her woe— She that hath shivered when mankind stood mute Or flung harsh words of evilest repute, Veiling her face her Maker’s cross below. With filial love thy heart ’gainst hers is laid Who rears the hills, in keeping holds the dead.