She had wrought on, lit with some flameHer children sensed, but could not see,And with a patient wizardryWheedled her stubborn bit of landTo yield beneath her coaxing hand,And sometimes in a lavish hourTo blossom even with a flower.Time after time her eyes grew dimWatching a life pay for the whimSome master of the land must feedTo keep her people down. The seedThey planted in her children's breastsOf hatred toward these men like beastsShe weeded out with legends howOnce there had been somewhere as nowA people harried, low in the dust;But such had been their utter trustIn Heaven and its field of starsThat they had broken down their bars,And walked across a parted seaPraising His name who set them free.I think more than the tales she told,The music in her voice, the goldAnd mellow notes she wrought,Made us forbear to voice the thoughtLow-buried underneath our love,That we saw things she knew not of.
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