Voltairine DeCleyre

GERMINAL!—The Field of Mars is plowing,

And hard the steel that cuts, and hot the breath

Of the great Oxen, straining flanks and bowing

Beneath his goad, who guides the share of Death.

GERMINAL!— The Dragon's teeth are sowing,

And stern and white the sower flings the seed

He shall not gather, though full swift the growing;

Straight down Death's furrow treads, and does not heed.

GERMINAL!— The Helmet Heads are springing

Far up the Field of Mars in gleaming files;

With wild war notes the bursting earth is ringing.

* * * * * * * * *

Within his grave the sower sleeps, and smiles.


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