And with tears almost human the mother looked down at the babe on her breast,
And her pain was the germ of our love, and her cry was the root of our speech.
Then a cloud from the sunset arose, like a cormorant gorged with its prey,
And extended its wings on the sky till it smothered the stars in its gloom,
And ever the famine-worn faces were wet with the wind-carried spray,
And dimly the voice of the deep to their ears was a portent of doom.
And the dawn that rose up on the morrow, apparelled in gold like a priest,
Through the smoke of the incense of morning, looked down on a vision of death;
For the vultures were gathered together and circled with joy to their feast
On hearts that had ceased from their sorrow, and lips that had yielded their breath.