Graspeth a curvèd sickle newly-whetted in hand,
And moweth in haste the crop yet green, neither letteth it stand
Until it be parched in the season due by the shafts of the sun;
Even so of the Earth-born the harvest he reaped; and with blood did they run, {1390}
Those furrows, as hurrying runnels that brim from a fountain’s plashing.
Fast fell they, some on their faces, bowing their knees, and gnashing
Their teeth on the rough clods—this one stayed on his palm, and he
On his side: as they wallowed they seemed as the monster-brood of the sea.
And many, or ever their feet from beneath the earth had come,
Pierced through, from the height whereunto they had risen, even therefrom