A cry more keen from the wild low land
Than the wail of waves that roll;—
"Take back the gift of a loveless hand,
Thy gift of doom and dole,
The weird of men that bide on land;
Take from me, take my soul!"
The hands that smite are the hands that spare
They build and break the tomb;
They turn to darkness and dust and air
The fruits of the waste earth's womb *