The Stranger at the Gate :: :: University of Virginia Library

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These were his fields Elysian:
With mystic eyes he saw
The sowers planting vision,
The reapers gleaming awe.

Serfs to a sordid duty,
He saw them with his heart,
Priests of the Ultimate Beauty,
Feeding the flame of art.

The weird, untempled Makers
Pulsed in the things he saw;
The wheat through its virile acres
Billowed the Song of Law.

The epic roll of the furrow
Flung from the writing plow,
The dactyl phrase of the green-rowed maize
Measured the music of Now.