 | Sonnets of the Wingless Hours |  |
107
TO A HANDFUL OF MUMMY WHEAT.
Thou'rt older than would be that pale gold wheat
Which, on a harvest evening, in the youth
Of fields of corn, the wistful gleaner Ruth
Saw in the fragrant twilight at her feet.
Which, on a harvest evening, in the youth
Of fields of corn, the wistful gleaner Ruth
Saw in the fragrant twilight at her feet.
Wave after wave of human life has beat
Against the silent tomb in which, like truth
Locked in dark error, thou hast braved the tooth
Of nibbling Time, safe in a mummy's sheet.
Against the silent tomb in which, like truth
Locked in dark error, thou hast braved the tooth
Of nibbling Time, safe in a mummy's sheet.
Go forth, go forth, that once again the sun
May kiss thee into ripeness, and the breath
Of morn make ripples in thy golden dun;
May kiss thee into ripeness, and the breath
Of morn make ripples in thy golden dun;
And multiply till every grain beneath
My finger, fills a garner; so that none
May say that in the Past there is but Death.
My finger, fills a garner; so that none
May say that in the Past there is but Death.
| Sonnets of the Wingless Hours | |