An Epic of Women, and Other Poems by Arthur William Edgar O'Shaughnessy - HTML preview

A WASTED LAND.

ALAS, for a sound is heard

Of a bitterly broken song;

Grievous is every word;

And the burden is weary and long

Like the waves between ebb and flow;

And it comes when the winds are low,

Or whenever the night is nigh,

And the world hath space for a sigh.

It was in the time of fruit;

When the peach began to pout,

And the purple grape to shine,

And the leaves were a threadbare suit

For the blushing blood of the vine,

And the spoilers were about

And the viper glode at the root:

—She came, and with her hand,

With her mouth, yea, and her eyes

She hath ravaged all the land;

Its beauty shall no more rise:

She hath drawn the wine to her lip.

For a mere wanton sip:

Lo, where the vine-branch lies;

Lo, where the drained grapes drip.

Her feet left many a stain;

And her lips left many a sting;

She will never come again,

And the fruit of everything

Is a canker or a pain:

And a memory doth crouch

Like an asp,—yea, in each part

Where she hath left her touch,—

Lying in wait for the heart.