Vulcan came to her arms in the grimy garb
Of toil, he smelt of the forge and the racketing workshop,
But not of blood.
And, if she smells these flowers, they bubble ruby blood
That trickles between her fingers.
Yet is a dream flowing over the red country,
Yet is a light growing, for all the black furrows of the red country ...
The machines are foe or friend
As the world desires.
The Beasts shall sleep again.
And in that sleep, when the land is twilight-still
And men take thought among the frozen waves of the dead,
The Sowers go forth once more,
Sowers of vision, sowers of the seed
Of peace or war.
Shall it be peace indeed?
Great shadowy figures moving from hill to hill
Of tangled bodies, with rhythmic stride and cowled averted head,
What do you sow with hands funereal—
New savageries imperial,
Unthinking pomps for arrogant, witless men?
Or seed for the people in strong democracy?
What do you see
With your secret eyes, and sow for us, that we must reap again?
