Look westward—if They please, the Gods shall bring
Their mercy with the Rain.
Look westward—bears the blue no brown cloud-bank?
Nay, it is written—wherefore should we fly?
On our own field and by our cattle's flank
Lie down, lie down to die!
By the plumed heads of Kings
Where the tall corn springs
O'er the dead.
If they rust or rot we die,
If they ripen we are fed.
Very mighty is the power of our Kings!
We have seen, we have written—behold it, the proof of our manifold toil!