When will the firm wind hush and whisper through the fertile loam,

Again again, O Ceres, conjuring up the grain,

Firing the languid seed, shaping the tender limbs, warming the home,

Spreading the voluptuous pollen, wooing and teasing the rain?

And when will that rich idea, slumbering in the mind

Of countless men who slept, laughed, sweated and fed,

Acquire brute flesh, chastened to lovely mould, find

A pregnant nursery-house where vision and strength are wed?

January, mcmxliii