 | Famine |  |
We are the myriad-winged race!
We alight on the first green place,
And we strip the leaves and the juicy shoots
And ruin the fruits
And efface every fruitful trace:
Famine! we pray thy grace.
Famine! Famine! we have sped:
The buffaloes out on the plains lie dead,
Too many to count, a goodly sight
For the lover of mere brute misery!
We had stay'd to see,
But thy call wing'd our flight
To Thee.
We alight on the first green place,
And we strip the leaves and the juicy shoots
And ruin the fruits
And efface every fruitful trace:
Famine! we pray thy grace.
Famine! Famine! we have sped:
The buffaloes out on the plains lie dead,
Too many to count, a goodly sight
For the lover of mere brute misery!
We had stay'd to see,
5
To Thee.
| Famine | |