POETRY: A Magazine of Verse
Yet I hear with every stroke I make
A demon with me moving;
Bending and bowing, bending and bowing,
Gathering in and striking free,
Gripping the sheaf with sickle and knee
And laying it down for the tying.
At last! The morning comes at last:
The hills are rich with filtered gold,
And through the vales a glory vast
In glowing might is swiftly rolled.
And hard my father's hand I hold,
And, standing 'midst the gleaming corn,
With him thank Heaven for the morn—
With lips that still are gray and cold!
THE MUSE IN CHURCH
The gates of brass are closed
That guard the ivory altar;
The great arched rafters frown on thee
Who art the harlot's daughter.
With lips like a carmine rose,
With robes like orchids rare,
With breath like spices delicate
That languorous pagans bear;
With thy petal cheeks aglowing,
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