Ut Sementem Feceris, Ita Metes


Voltairine DeCleyre

How many drops must gather to the skies

Before the cloud-burst comes, we may not know;

How hot the fires ill under hells must glow

Ere the volcano's scalding lavas rise,

Can none say; but all wot the hour is sure!

Who dreams of vengeance has but to endure

He may not say how many blows must fall,

How many lives be broken on the wheel,

How many corpses stiffen 'neath the pall,

How many martyrs fix the blood-red seal;

But certain is the harvest time of Hate!

And when weak moans by an indignant world

Re-echoed, to a throne are backward hurled,

Who listens hears the mutterings of Fate!


Go Back