THE SONG OF THE WHEATI
I sprang from the heart of the earth,
From the brown, still heart
That gives, though it pulseth not,
All things being and birth.
This vegetable mould,
Black, resisting, and cold,
Is pregnant in every part
With essence of life.
Infused with The Spark, my shell—
Pained with the mighty swell
Of being and life that woke—
Travailed: fibres broke.
Green shoots slender,
Powerful, though most tender,
Pushed upward—a crust gave way—
Earth opened . . . and I saw day!
From the brown, still heart
That gives, though it pulseth not,
All things being and birth.
This vegetable mould,
Black, resisting, and cold,
Is pregnant in every part
With essence of life.
Infused with The Spark, my shell—
Pained with the mighty swell
Of being and life that woke—
Travailed: fibres broke.
Green shoots slender,
Powerful, though most tender,
Pushed upward—a crust gave way—
Earth opened . . . and I saw day!
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