Mentana: First Anniversary

At the time when the stars are grey,     And the gold of the molten moon     Fades, and the twilight is thinned,     And the sun leaps up, and the wind,     A light rose, not of the day,     A stronger light than of noon.     As the light of a face much loved     Was the face of the light that clomb;     As a mothers whitened with woes     Her adorable head that arose;     As the sound of a God that is moved,     Her voice went forth upon Rome.     At her lips it fluttered and failed     Twice, and sobbed into song,     And sank as a flame sinks under;     Then spake, and the speech was thunder,     And the cheek as he heard it paled     Of the wrongdoer grown grey with the wrong.     Is it time, is it time appointed,     Angel of time, is it near?     For the spent night aches into day     When the kings shall slay not or pray,     And the high-priest, accursed and anointed,     Sickens to deathward with fear.     For the bones of my slain are stirred,     And the seed of my earth in her womb     Moves as the heart of a bud     Beating with odorous blood     To the tune of the loud first bird     Burns and yearns into bloom.     I lay my hand on her bosom,     My hand on the heart of my earth,     And I feel as with shiver and sob     The triumphant heart in her throb,     The dead petals dilate into blossom,     The divine blood beat into birth.     O my earth, are the springs in thee dry?     O sweet, is thy body a tomb?     Nay, springs out of springs derive,     And summers from summers alive,     And the living from them that die;     No tomb is here, but a womb.     O manifold womb and divine,     Give me fruit of my children, give!     I have given thee my dew for thy root,     Give thou me for my mouth of thy fruit;     Thine are the dead that are mine,     And mine are thy sons that live.     O goodly children, O strong     Italian spirits, that wear     My glories as garments about you,     Could time or the world misdoubt you,     Behold, in disproof of the wrong,     The field of the grave-pits there.     And ye that fell upon sleep,     We have you too with us yet.     Fairer than life or than youth     Is this, to die for the truth:     No death can sink you so deep     As their graves whom their brethren forget.     Were not your pains as my pains?     As my name are your names not divine?     Was not the light in your eyes     Mine, the light of my skies,     And the sweet shed blood of your veins,     O my beautiful martyrs, mine?     Of mine earth were your dear limbs made,     Of mine air was your sweet lifes breath;     At the breasts of my love ye were fed,     O my children, my chosen, my dead,     At my breasts where again ye are laid,     At the old mothers bosom, in death.     But ye that live, O their brothers,     Be ye to me as they were;     Give me, my children that live,     What these dead grudged not to give,     Who alive were sons of your mothers,     Whose lips drew breath of your air.     Till darkness by dawn be cloven,     Let youths self mourn and abstain;     And loves self find not an hour,     And springs self wear not a flower,     And Lycoris, with hair unenwoven,     Hail back to the banquet in vain.     So sooner and surer the glory     That is not with us shall be,     And stronger the hands that smite     The heads of the sons of night,     And the sound throughout earth of our story     Give all men heart to be free.