May Day [1892]

THE WORKERS.

O Earth, once again cometh Spring to deliver
    Thy winter-worn heart, O thou friend of the Sun;
Fair blossom the meadows from river to river
    And the birds sing their triumph o'er winter undone.

O Earth, how a-toiling thou singest thy labour
    And upholdest the flower-crowned cup of thy bliss,
As when in the feast-tide drinks neighbour to neighbour
    And all words are gleeful, and nought is amiss.

But we, we, O Mother, through long generations,
    We have toiled and been fruitful, but never with thee
Might we raise up our bowed heads and cry to the nations
    To look on our beauty, and hearken our glee.

Unlovely of aspect, heart-sick and a-weary
    On the season's fair pageant all dim-eyed we gaze;
Of thy fairness we fashion a prison-house dreary
    And in sorrow wear over each day of our days.

THE EARTH.

O children!    O toilers, what foemen beleaguer
    The House I have built you, the Home I have won?
Full great are my gifts, and my hands are all eager
    To fill every heart with the deeds I have done.

THE WORKERS.

The foemen are born of thy body, O Mother,
    In our shape are they shapen, their voice is the same;
And the thought of their hearts is as ours and no other;
    It is they of our own house that bring us to shame.

THE EARTH.

Are ye few?    Are they many?    What words have ye spoken
    To bid your own brethren remember the Earth?
What deeds have ye done that the bonds should be broken,
    And men dwell together in good-will and mirth?

THE WORKERS.

They are few, we are many:    and yet, O our Mother,
    Many years were we wordless and nought was our deed,
But now the word flitteth from brother to brother:
    We have furrowed the acres and scattered the seed.

THE EARTH.

Win on then unyielding, through fair and foul weather,
    And pass not a day that your deed shall avail.
And in hope every spring-tide come gather together
    That unto the Earth ye may tell all your tale.

Then this shall I promise, that I am abiding
    The day of your triumph, the ending of gloom,
And no wealth that ye will then my hand shall be hiding
    And the tears of the spring into roses shall bloom.