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 l^y CHewiDoweoeARCH 
 
 HARRY ALONZO BRADDS 
 
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 COPYRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
THE 
 WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 A Dramatic Poem 
 
 BY 
 
 HARRY ALONZO BRANDT 
 
 ^T ^ARTI et VeRITATp fi 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 THE GORHAM PRESS 
 19 I 6 
 
Copyright, 1916, by Harry A. Brandt 
 
 All Rights Reserved 
 
 The Gorham Press, Boston, U. S. A. 
 
 \ 
 
 DEC II 1916 
 
 g)Cl.D 45H18 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 Prologue: New Wine 9 
 
 I. The Pagan ii 
 
 II. The Upas Tree 19 
 
 III. The House of Blood 27 
 
 IV. The Widowed Earth 37 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
DRAMATIS PERSONi^ 
 
 Pagan — A sea-captain. 
 
 Youth — An ardent youth. 
 
 Junius or Job — A poet. 
 
 First Friend, Second Friend, etc. 
 
 Scene — A modern seaport. 
 
 Time — Now. 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 PROLOGUE. NEW WINE 
 
 You pipe of golden years, 
 And dream that Pan appears 
 Beneath the tangled trees, 
 Or by the shady pine, 
 With Bacchic hosts that dine 
 And dance with naiades. 
 
 You blow the mellow praise 
 Of dead, romantic days. 
 Till knights begin to gleam 
 And flash before your eyes, 
 And charge the kings that rise 
 By castled hill and stream. 
 
 What if you pipe and sing? 
 Not all your reeds can bring 
 To life your mythic year! 
 For earth is old and wise, 
 And all her mountains rise 
 Through forests gray and sear. 
 
 9 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Then gone, forever gone, 
 Is earth's Arcadian lawn; 
 And so, let pagans weep 
 For nymphs in leafy glade. 
 For all the feasts they made, 
 For gods and men who sleep. 
 
 But shall I quake and dread 
 Because the past is dead? 
 Nay, fool! This is the time 
 To change my coat and fare. 
 To crop my tangled hair. 
 And build the living rhyme. 
 
 Wherefore, a curse on Pan! 
 For I shall sing of man! 
 Of man, I smite and go 
 Through all the ranging keys 
 Of human melodies 
 That spring from present woe! 
 
 10 
 
I. THE PAGAN 
 
 It is night. Pagan strolls along the streets of 
 a great city reveling in the sights that are new as 
 IV ell as old. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Right glad I am at last, 
 To leave the swaying mast 
 Behind; to seek again 
 The pleasant ways of men, 
 Exploring every street 
 Where friendly pagans meet. 
 Aha, see here displayed 
 Whatever man has made 
 Of gold! Old pirate would 
 Make booty of this store 
 Of stones and costly ore, 
 These rings and tropic wood! 
 If I were not content. 
 And now on pleasure bent. 
 It would be kingly sport 
 To rob this wealthy port! 
 
 Enter Youth and Junius. The last is some paces 
 behind and continues to stand at a distance. 
 
 II 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Pagan 
 
 What luck ! Here comes a strong 
 And thoughtful youth. A man 
 Whose face is lean and long 
 Will surely fit my plan. 
 Sir Youth, yon moody man 
 In rags, tell me, how can 
 He look so cynical 
 About the carnival? 
 
 Youth 
 
 The man in rags? Aye so. 
 Yon Junius, Sir, you know, 
 Has neither house nor purse; 
 Therefore, whereof to curse! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Indeed, a sounding name, 
 A very sounding name 
 
 Youth 
 
 But hard unfeeling minds, 
 Or hearts where pity finds 
 12 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 No place, would care to run 
 
 His name into a pun. 
 
 My Sir, it would appall 
 
 If you could know him all 
 
 And all, could stand with him 
 
 Upon the very rim 
 
 Of immortality, 
 
 And then, yes, then, should see 
 
 Great hopes and splendid power 
 
 Receding hour by hour! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 What tale of woe is this? 
 On me such ravings miss 
 Their mark. Behold me now! 
 No foolish thoughts endow 
 My heart with weak pity. 
 But look, and truly see 
 I am a man at home 
 Wherever sailors roam. 
 Can I be weak or sick 
 When pleasures lie so thick? 
 Aha, see here displayed 
 All fruits of skill and trade; 
 Yes, every sensuous thing 
 The art of man can bring! 
 
 13 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Behold these lofty piles, 
 Whose goodly courts and aisles 
 Are paved with wood and stone 
 That kings would fight to own. 
 And here, upon this wall, 
 Great silken curtains fall. 
 Of webbed lace as white 
 As foam-draped Aphrodite. 
 And there, is savory meat, 
 With wines both sharp and sweet, 
 Perfumes, and fruit, and spice. 
 Yes, all that can entice 
 The pagan heart! Here too, 
 The while my wonder grew, 
 I heard the rhythmic beat 
 Of many choral feet. 
 Of voices wrought in song 
 With laughter echoed long. 
 Shall happy men repent? 
 Not I ! This world was meant 
 To be the variant toy 
 That brings us health and joy! 
 
 Youth 
 
 And hence, no sorrows roll 
 Across your hardened soul! 
 
 14 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Well, no, for when at last 
 The watch upon the mast 
 Spies out the home city 
 Across the shining sea, 
 Then the heart is glad! 
 For all the crew is mad 
 With joy to see the land 
 Whereon the cities stand. 
 'Twas so last night. There lay 
 The towns across the bay, 
 Gray white along the west 
 As Phoebus came to rest 
 Behind such clouds as lie 
 Along a sunset sky! 
 We watched until the day 
 Was gone. The mansions lay 
 In shadows as the gown 
 Of ebon night sank down 
 Upon the painted town. 
 And then a timid light 
 Defied engulfing night; 
 It was a kindling spark 
 That smote the gloom and dark 
 Until the wide city 
 Became one galaxy 
 Of starry pageantry! 
 
 15 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 Youth 
 
 I, too, have looked amazed 
 
 Upon great towns emblazed, 
 
 Until there came a note 
 
 Across the ocean moat, 
 
 A boding voice, that moaned 
 
 And died, and growing droned 
 
 Like distant tides at sea 
 
 That come eventually 
 
 To seize with crushing grip 
 
 Upon the aspen ship! 
 
 This boding minstrelsy 
 
 Of runic murmurs swelled 
 
 In chords that laughed and 
 
 knelled 
 Until their shriek and cry 
 Moaned of the souls that die ! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Ha, ha! The changeful tune 
 Is not a mystic rune! 
 It is the cry of steel 
 And trenchant grinding wheel; 
 i6 
 
THE PAGAN 
 
 Or seething melting pot 
 Of metals whitcd hot, 
 With echoes of the street 
 Where Cork and Aden meet! 
 
 Youth 
 
 Perhaps, but I can see 
 Its boding mystery. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Ha, ha! I weep to see 
 Such gloomy fantasy! 
 
 {Junius steps nearer) 
 Well, now, my moody knight, 
 That scornest all delight, 
 Tell me, at carnival 
 Are not we friends to all ? 
 Therefore, tell us your name. 
 Your part and jest. 
 
 Junius 
 
 My name? My Sir, a name 
 Is not a name, except 
 
 17 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 The wit of some adept 
 Link it with jest or shame. 
 Wherefore, my brazen man, 
 But only waiting can, 
 With truth, disclose to thee 
 My soul in misery. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Well, now, in every speech 
 My friends begin to preach ! 
 Alack, the fates will send 
 Me to a tragic end! 
 Indeed, what shall I seek? 
 For when I dare to speak 
 The brooding landsman grows 
 Vehement or morose. 
 The fates will make of me 
 The sport of sympathy. 
 But fie! I know a cup 
 That lifts the spirits up ! 
 
 i8 
 
II. THE UPAS TREE 
 
 // is morning, and Pagan is early upon the 
 streets. The crowds are just beginning to hurry by. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 The day begins, but gray 
 
 And sombre vapors lay 
 
 Far-streaked and mingled by 
 
 The towers that reach the sky. 
 
 The narrow sinuous street 
 
 Cuts by the granite feet 
 
 Of giant piles, whose cold 
 
 Hard walls, steel-ribbed and old, 
 
 Look insurmountable. 
 
 The gorge between is dense 
 
 With men, impassable. 
 
 Except to many tense 
 
 And haggard men, weak spawn 
 
 Who drift and eddy on 
 
 I know not where. Forlorn 
 
 Is day a very morn! 
 
 For in this dismal place 
 
 I see no choral face. 
 
 Or sign of carnival 
 
 From night's gay capital. 
 
 19 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 (Enter Junius) 
 
 What now? The moody leer 
 Of yonder cavalier 
 Recalls a starry light 
 I saw on yester night. 
 Here, then, I have a guide, 
 And earth is not so wide, 
 But that through him I may 
 Begin to clear away 
 This rune of night and day. 
 The jest, my man, the jest! 
 
 Junius 
 
 My weary soul be blest! 
 But why tell you the jest? 
 Indeed, my name might be, 
 Junius, in raillery; 
 Again, some call me Job, 
 Since I must wear his robe. 
 But now, that you are mine, 
 I give you tears for wine. 
 I say the past is dead, 
 For hills where shepherds fed 
 Their flocks and piped a tune 
 From dawn till drowsy noon 
 20 
 
THE UPAS TREE 
 
 Are now a heap of slag! 
 See where the toilers drag 
 The disembowelled hills 
 Up to the maws of mills; 
 And where by giant wheel, 
 By cold resistless steel, 
 By measured steady shock, 
 They grind the living rock! 
 At last earth's treasure-hold 
 Must give its utmost gold. 
 Therefore new temples stand 
 Upon the cratered land, 
 Wherein are heard the hoarse 
 And clanging songs of force; 
 While nauseous vapors lie 
 Across the blackened sky. 
 Then gone, forever gone, 
 Is that Arcadian lawn! 
 Its flocks and choral men, 
 Its nymphs and leafy glen, 
 Are gone! And pagans weep 
 For gods and men who sleep. 
 But shall I wail my fate 
 That I am come so late? 
 That I am set when old 
 Conceptions cannot hold? 
 When ancient flasks of wine 
 21 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Would drug your hopes and mine? 
 Nay, fool, I do not seek 
 Arcadia or the Greek! 
 What? To lie and pipe 
 When all the world is ripe 
 For men who see and sing 
 Of all new facts may bring? 
 The world w^U welter till 
 Its bards have drunk their fill 
 Of earth's new wine of woe; 
 And, therefore, shall I go, 
 And, therefore, shall I drink 
 To drowse, to brood, to think, 
 For thus I know I can 
 Sing true of troubled man. 
 Thus may I smite and go 
 Through joy and human woe. 
 See yonder doors of brass 
 And steel, where toilers pass: 
 The beardless youth, women. 
 Children, and broken men, 
 A horde of young and old 
 To cut, to sew, to fold 
 From dawn till late. Yes, long 
 Into the night the song 
 Of wheels and shuttles bright 
 In mad and burning flight 
 22 
 
THE UPAS TREE 
 
 Will hum and drone, until 
 
 An agonizing train 
 
 Of endless murmurs fill 
 
 The stunned and stifled brain! 
 
 Here is a little thing 
 
 The toilers come to sing: 
 
 Work, work, work, 
 With never an hour to pause or wait. 
 But only a ceaseless strain 
 
 From dawn till late. 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 With never a thought, but just to strive 
 To worship the senseless wheels 
 
 That ever drive. 
 
 Work, work, work. 
 Filling up my cup with hate and gall, 
 And letting the long days weave 
 
 The worker's thrall. 
 
 Work, work, work, 
 So binding my life in part and whole; 
 The pall of an endless task 
 
 Has slain my soul! 
 
 Work, w^ork, work. 
 Yes, work for the gods and men who slay ! 
 
 23 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 The end is a house of blood, 
 Is dust and clay! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Alas, complaining Job, 
 
 Your speech becomes your robe! 
 
 Junius 
 
 Aha! Then hear again. 
 For I will speak for men: 
 
 I saw a goodly princess stand 
 Within the crowded market place; 
 The people praised her matchless form 
 And Roman face. 
 
 For in her hand a balance swung; 
 She was the law for small and great. 
 Then at her feet a man was flung, 
 The people wait — 
 
 The people wait and mutter while 
 The man is slashed through flesh and bone; 
 They turn their faces from the sight, 
 But hear his moan. 
 
 24 
 
THE UPAS TREE 
 
 Their king was of red Herod's type; 
 And though his hands were dripping blood, 
 The mighty smiled and bade him join 
 Their brotherhood. 
 
 Does not the princess judge her race? 
 Or will she leave the small to fate 
 That crime and greed may twine to serve 
 The cruel great? 
 
 But then I saw her seemly form 
 Was ribbed with age and lichen grown! 
 Oh, God! La Belle Dame sans Merci 
 Was rotten stone! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 My Job, at last I see 
 A poison grief in thee! 
 
 Junius 
 
 Is aught I say the fruit 
 Of fool or drunken brute? 
 And if my song is sad, 
 No need to call me mad ! 
 For if I sing of man 
 25 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 I am no Caliban. 
 
 Hear once again my speech, 
 
 For this is what I teach: 
 
 The city is the spot 
 
 Where nations start to rot, 
 
 For here the nations mate. 
 
 Here breed, here congregate, 
 
 Until the fight to live 
 
 Consumes what love should give. 
 
 And here ambitions lead 
 
 To hate, insatiate greed; 
 
 And these pollute and breed 
 
 In every heart. Indeed, 
 
 Cities destroy us, for 
 
 They nurse the seeds of war! 
 
 Therefore, this capital 
 
 That seems at carnival 
 
 Is full of poison breath. 
 
 Of hidden bones and death; 
 
 Is but a upas tree 
 
 That spreadeth misery! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Alas for grief! for when 
 The speech of living men 
 Is on the vital air 
 You brood in blind despair! 
 
 26 
 
III. THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 
 
 Evening has come, and Pagan is upon the street. 
 He is seeking for any diversion that may help him 
 to forget the gloomy experience of the morning. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Now comes the close of day, 
 And now shall night allay 
 All grief, for they who weep 
 Forget their tears in sleep. 
 
 {Enter Youth) 
 
 Youth 
 
 Oh, Sir, kind Sir, and can 
 You help a wounded man? 
 
 Pagan 
 
 What now? I am no priest! 
 27 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Youth 
 
 But, Sir, he has not ceased 
 To call for you ; 'tis late 
 And other friends await 
 
 Pagan 
 
 But if I do not know 
 The man 
 
 Youth 
 Then will you go? 
 
 Pagan 
 Alas, for whom or where? 
 
 Youth 
 
 With me; I'll guide you there. 
 
 {Exit) 
 
 In a small and dimly lighted room two men 
 stand conversing near the door. A third person is 
 stretched out upon a low bed in the corner of the 
 28 
 
THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 
 
 room. This last is Junius, or Job, and the other 
 two men are his friends. 
 
 (Enter Youth with Pagan) 
 
 Youth 
 
 Here, friends, a friend! Give room! 
 See there, in gathering gloom 
 And bitter misery, 
 Is he who begged for thee! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 What? And this is Job, 
 In blood and tattered robe? 
 
 Youth 
 
 It is, for this is he 
 
 Who cursed the wide city; 
 
 But now as one who feels 
 
 The crunching of the wheels 
 
 That grind, he speaks — that grind 
 
 Both flesh and eager mind. 
 
 He has a fearful wound, 
 
 And often has he swooned, 
 
 29 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH ; 
 
 But still, in spite of pain, j 
 
 The man sometimes can gain I 
 
 His voice — until the blood : 
 
 Bursts in a gurgling flood i 
 
 Upon his lips i 
 
 i 
 
 Junius ! 
 
 Oh! Oh! j 
 
 If death must take my soul i 
 
 The grave v^ill be my goal! j 
 
 Oh— ; 
 As one who fed the steel 
 
 Beneath the shaping wheel, \ 
 
 I learned to race the great ' 
 
 Machine at daring rate, ) 
 
 And laughed when I would choke ; 
 
 With heat or burning smoke, \ 
 Until — my flesh was caught 
 And torn, yes, crushed and wrought 
 
 Into a foolish pack i 
 
 Of blood and rags! Alack! j 
 
 Alack, that life should stop j 
 
 In some great sooty shop! I 
 
 For now no deed shall sound j 
 
 My little name around j 
 The world, but I shall rot 
 
 30 i 
 
THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 
 
 In some unhallowed spot! 
 
 Oh— 
 
 What? To fear and quake? 
 
 To pant? To curse? To shake? 
 
 Aha! Old Death may take 
 
 What crumbs of life remain, 
 
 For since my hopes are slain, 
 
 In sacrificial cup 
 
 My life is lifted up ! 
 
 First Friend 
 
 I will not waste my breath 
 Upon a toast to Death, 
 For since the grave is near 
 A friend should speak sincere. 
 I will not mollify. 
 Or try to mystify. 
 My words are sharp and plain, 
 But they are golden grain. 
 Then hear, my fainting Job: 
 I know your faded robe 
 Does ill become the part 
 Of your ambitious heart; 
 Yet, pride is not condemned 
 If love of power is stemmed, 
 Controlled, and made to serve 
 
 31 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Sane thought and steady nerve. 
 I know you hoped to toy 
 With high ambitious lays 
 Like one who sang of Troy 
 And Greece in ancient days. 
 We know his robe and fare 
 Were vile, but did he swear 
 As you? The poet's mind 
 Is keen, eager, refined. 
 Why then should deepest wrong 
 Embitter all your song? 
 The great do master woe, 
 In truth, refine it so 
 The very utmost pain 
 Distils the grand refrain. 
 
 Junius 
 
 So immortality 
 
 Is born of misery? 
 
 My God ! when will you din 
 
 Of sweeter doctrine? 
 
 And now my day grows late. 
 
 For Time will never wait. 
 
 And I must pass, I fear, 
 
 Before my high career. 
 
 Why mock at pain and death? 
 
 3^ 
 
THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 
 
 I have no health or breath. 
 Tell me, what goodly thing 
 Did dead men ever bring? 
 Alas, I pass, I fear. 
 Before my golden year — 
 I faint, I cease to speak 
 Before I reach my peak! 
 
 Second Friend 
 
 My words shall not be bent 
 Or barbed with argument. 
 So let this tale of mine 
 Distil as oil and wine 
 Upon an ancient sore. 
 I mollify my speech, 
 And if I seem to teach, 
 Then I shall speak no more. 
 There was an eager youth 
 Who lived in times, forsooth, 
 When in the tuneful air. 
 The earth, and everywhere. 
 Each cloud, or stone, or clod. 
 Embraced some petty god. 
 "A god?" the youth would ask, 
 "A god in such a mask?" 
 Then to his priests he said: 
 
 33 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 "Are gods alive or dead? 
 Are gods so vilely grown 
 They live in shapeless stone? 
 Howr beautiful is all 
 The living w^orld! I call 
 Upon the gods that live! 
 And to their souls I give 
 The fairest lineament 
 In earth or firmament!" 
 But w^hen the priests had heard, 
 Their utmost wrath was stirred. 
 "Away with him! In truth, 
 We ought to stone this youth!" 
 But with this sentence said, 
 The youth escaped; he fled 
 Unto the hills, and there 
 Alone, with love and care, 
 He carved him gods again, 
 But fair and formed as men. 
 In later times a race 
 Of wiser men were bred, 
 And when they found the place 
 To which the youth had fled. 
 They put his scattered bones 
 Beneath his gods, and raised 
 A house of burnished stones 
 Wherein his name is praised. 
 
THE HOUSE OF BLOOD 
 
 Junius 
 
 I know that men should wait, 
 
 In patience contemplate 
 
 The crown of olive leaves. 
 
 Perhaps some distant day 
 
 Unnumbered satellites, 
 
 Some cults, some parasites 
 
 Of fame will come to prey 
 
 Upon my name, and I 
 
 Shall live because I die! 
 
 But, friends, you know this leaves 
 
 My present needs and grief 
 
 Untouched. Why not relief 
 
 From pain that far outweighs 
 
 Some dole of future praise? 
 
 What man but longs to live 
 
 For what this earth can give? 
 
 I give my scanty dole 
 
 Of crowns, yes, friends, the whole 
 
 Of all the ages give 
 
 That here and now may live! 
 
 Oh, empty, empty vaunt. 
 
 How many men are gaunt 
 
 With starving all their days 
 
 Upon the wine of praise! 
 
 So take my crowns and gold, 
 
 35 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 All tears and garments old, 
 All shame and sacred vow, 
 But give me here and now, 
 With life, and every mirth, 
 The very fat of earth! 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Alas, I find the key 
 
 Of all your misery 
 
 Too late! A pagan friend 
 
 You are, and this will rend 
 
 My heart! Had I but lent 
 
 My gold we should have spent 
 
 This night at bacchanals. 
 
 At happy carnivals — 
 
 But now, when we should dine, 
 
 Thou givest tears for wine! 
 
 36 
 
IV. THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 The place and the persons are the same as for 
 III. But a few minutes of time have elapsed. 
 
 Youth 
 
 Now see the Pagan weep, 
 But not from Bacchic sleep ! 
 Now are the aged still! 
 But why? Does wisdom fill 
 The heart of burning youth? 
 Is he the ward of truth? 
 Aha, in teeming years. 
 White hair, and many tears, 
 You say is wisdom found ! 
 Why then does Job confound 
 The wise and solemn seer? 
 Are you too old to hear 
 Him hurling bitter words 
 Like flocks of tropic birds? 
 My soul is past restraint 
 At hearing Job's complaint. 
 Have I not heard him speak 
 Defenses for the weak? 
 Have I not seen him give 
 His crust that men might live? 
 But now the subtle seed 
 Of selfishness and greed, 
 
 37 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 With all he sought to slay, 
 Comes at the last to lay 
 Its stamp upon his soul. 
 But if his shining goal 
 Is lost, I shall not blame. 
 Much less in aught defame 
 The man, but shame, but woe. 
 On all that makes him so! 
 And now, look you at Job, 
 For I will seek to probe 
 His heart. Behold his form. 
 Wherein the stress and storm 
 Of wide diversity 
 Will give no mastery. 
 Does not his lofty brow 
 Suggest a priestly vow? 
 And yet, would cheek of lip 
 Let what is sensuous slip? 
 I shall not mock the plaint, 
 Nor shall I scorn the tear 
 Of such as Job, who faint 
 And die in full career; 
 Yet I will answer him 
 Before his eyes are dim. 
 Yes, Job, and all, give heed. 
 There is in him the seed 
 Of death. Did not he say 
 
 38 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 With scorn, and madly pray : 
 
 "I give my scanty dole 
 
 Of crowns, yes, friends, the whole 
 
 Of what the ages give 
 
 That here and now may live! 
 
 Aye, take my crowns and gold, 
 
 All tears and garments old, 
 
 All shame and sacred vow. 
 
 But give me here and now. 
 
 With life and every mirth, 
 
 The very fat of earth!" 
 
 My Job, indeed one can 
 
 Call this the beast in man! 
 
 If this sums up the whole 
 
 You have no poet's soul. 
 
 My fainting, dying seer, 
 
 At death it does appear 
 
 Your heart is full inclined 
 
 To self. Your eager mind 
 
 Has feared too much the price 
 
 Of holy sacrifice. 
 
 Have you no travail when 
 
 Despair would ruin men? 
 
 Yet once your voice was strong 
 
 Against the rule of wrong. 
 
 Why now, for self and mirth, 
 
 Despise the widowed earth? 
 
 39 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 But think what savage strife, 
 What wars for very life, 
 If all the world should be 
 In Job's philosophy! 
 Behold, my friends, and see 
 I speak no mystery. 
 For in these savage years 
 Our traders laugh at fears, 
 Since out of wars and pain 
 They cull their bloody gain. 
 For these new cannibals 
 Grow fat on carnivals 
 Of hate ! For blood, rich-red 
 And warm from mangled dead, 
 Will yield a gold return. 
 Because our merchants yearn 
 With deep insatiate greed 
 For gain, the nations bleed. 
 If wealth remains the goal 
 Of our fat trader's soul, 
 What of the end? The end 
 When shrieking nations rend 
 And slay? Such homicide 
 Will end in very deed 
 With nations crucified 
 Upon a cross of greed! 
 For while the strong contend 
 
 40 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Their bitter wars do rend 
 The innocent and weak. 
 Alas, the earth shall reek 
 With flesh, and graves shall lie 
 Unnumbered as the sky 
 Of countless stars'. What then? 
 What then if broken men 
 Shall come to loathe the kings 
 Whose pride and hatred brings 
 Ten nations to the pits 
 Where Death with Ares sits? 
 And what if seers shall fail, 
 And purblind poets wail 
 And curse, or fight to hold 
 Some pot of bloody gold? 
 What, then, if all the world 
 Is caught and backward hurled 
 Into a sea of slime, 
 Of primal ooze and crime. 
 Until the awful flood 
 Makes earth a house of blood? 
 
 First Friend 
 
 Behold, torrential speech. 
 Sir Youth, can never reach 
 The ear of Job, nor he 
 41 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Reply. Let courtesy 
 Bestow what love is led 
 To lavish on the dead. 
 
 Pagan 
 
 Alas, the man is dead! 
 Is dead upon a bed 
 Of clotted blood! So lay 
 His stiffened corpse away; 
 But soft and gently, friends, 
 For love with kindness lends 
 Our final gift. Is dead — 
 My God, the man is dead! 
 But what can now be said 
 For widowed earth? Will she 
 Sink, too, in misery? 
 
 Youth 
 
 Alas, my friends, you see 
 How Job's philosophy 
 Begets us wars and fears. 
 And hurls the nations back 
 Upon the weltering track 
 A thousand precious years — 
 And yet I want to live, 
 O God, I want to live! 
 42 
 
THE WIDOWED EARTH 
 
 Perhaps a better earth 
 
 Shall find its holy birth 
 
 In all our loss and woe — 
 
 But I, how can I know? 
 
 And yet I want to live 
 
 To strike with mace and sword, 
 
 With wit and kindling word, 
 
 With might and lyric song 
 
 At hydra-headed wrong! 
 
 I cannot lie and pipe 
 
 When all the world is ripe 
 
 For men who work and sing 
 
 Of what new truth may bring. 
 
 What if the earth be slag 
 
 And graves? The brave shall drag 
 
 Debris aside, forget their hate 
 
 And reconstruct the state. 
 
 For when our wars shall cease, 
 
 And men remember peace, 
 
 I, too, would toil and wait 
 
 With those who rear the state 
 
 Anew; who build again 
 
 The homes of simple men! 
 
 43 
 
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 
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