Poem 148 (III…)

III

Now the sky is inky black, And the clouds a driven rack, Now the wind of death is blowing. "Sceptre and crown Shall tumble down." How the kings of the earth are going!

IV

Mysterious Earth! mother of trees and flowers, Born in thy busy darkness—home of men! Whose turning sets the timeless flight of hours, Who weavest life and dost unweave again;

In some far distant star, whereof no word Hath traversed space, or human or divine, They call thee by a name we never heard. Night after night they look to see thee shine.

Old Earth, if thou were burnt, a blazing light, With all the men and beasts that in thee are, The dwellers in the kindred worlds of night Would haply say, "There fell a shooting star!"