EARTH TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY.
You cannot take from out my heart the growing, The green, sweet growing, and the vivid thrill. "O Earth," you cry, "you should be old, not glowing With youth and all youth's strength and beauty still!"
Old, and the new hopes stirring in my bosom! Old, and my children drawing life from me! Old, in my womb the tender bud and blossom! Old, steeped in richness and fertility!
Old, while the growing things call to each other, In language I alone can understand: "How she doth nourish us, this wondrous mother Who is so beautiful and strong and grand!"
Old, while the wild things of the forest hide them In my gray coverts, which no eye can trace! Hunted or hurt, 'tis my task to provide them Healing and soothing and a hiding place.
And then, my human children, could you listen To secrets whispered in the stillness deep Of noonday, or when night-dews fall and glisten— 'Tis on my bosom that men laugh and weep.
Some tell me moving tales of love and passion, Of gladness all too great to be pent in— The sweet, old theme which does not change its fashion— Another cries out brokenly of sin.
While others filled with sorrow, fain to share it, Hide tear-wet faces on my soft brown breast, Sobbing: "Dear Mother Earth, we cannot bear it, Grim death has stolen all that we loved best!"
The old familiar cry of loss and sorrow I hear to-day—I heard it yesterday— Ay, and will hear in every glad to-morrow That ye may bring to me, O Century.