Page:Poems Rossetti.djvu/244

Is there nought to reap in the day of harvest?
 Hath the vine in her day no fruit to yield?
Yea, men tread the press, but not for sweetness,
 And they reap a red crop from the field.
Build barns, ye reapers, garner all aright,
   Though your souls be called to-night.

A cry of tears goes up from blackened homesteads,
 A cry of blood goes up from reeking earth.
Tears and blood have a cry that pierces Heaven
 Through all its Hallelujah swells of mirth;
God hears their cry, and though He tarry, yet
   He doth not forget.

Mournful Mother, prone in dust and weeping
 Who shall comfort thee for those who are not?
As thou didst, men do to thee; and heap the measure,
 And heat the furnace sevenfold hot:
As thou once, now these to thee—who pitieth thee
   From sea to sea?

O thou King, terrible in strength, and building
 Thy strong future on thy past!
Though he drink the last, the King of Sheshach,
 Yet he shall drink at the last.
Art thou greater than great Babylon,
   Which lies overthrown?

Take heed, ye unwise among the people;
 O ye fools, when will ye understand?—