  Unto these fields of torn and rutted earth, These hills that lift their many a naked scar, There yet shall come the indomitable mirth Of Springs that have remembered where they are. The slow processions of sweet sun and rain Will crown the changing seasons as they pass, With healing and green fruit and swollen grain, And banners of the gay and dauntless grass. Here little paths will find their way again, And here the patient cattle come to stand, Until, grown half-incredulous, these men Looking from doorways on the evening land, Can scarcely think—so deep the quiet lies— How all of this was ever otherwise. |
|
