Poor Earth


Elinor Wylie

It is not heaven: bitter seed

Leavens its entrails with despair

It is a star where dragons breed:

Devils have a footing there.

The sky has bent it out of shape;

The sun has strapped it to his wheel;

Its course is crooked to escape

Traps and gins of stone and steel.

It balances on air, and spins

Snared by strong transparent space;

I forgive it all its sins;

I kiss the scars upon its face.

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