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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392464" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Earth-Mother</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">COMETH a voice:—‘My children, hear; <br> From the crowded street and the close-packed mart <br>I call you back with my message clear, <br> Back to my lap and my loving heart. <br>Long have ye left me, journeying on <br> By range and river and grassy plain, <br>To the teeming towns where the rest have gone— <br> Come back, come back to my arms again. <br> <br>‘So shall ye lose the foolish needs <br> That gnaw your souls; and my touch shall serve <br>To heal the ills that the city breeds, <br> The pallid cheek and the fretted nerve. <br>Treading the turf that ye once loved well, <br> Instead of the stones of the city’s street, <br>Ye shall hear nor din nor drunken yell, <br> But the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. <br> <br>‘Yonder, beneath the smoke-smeared sky, <br> A city of half a million souls <br>That struggle and chaffer and strive and cry <br> By a sullied river that seaward rolls. <br>But here, blue range and full-filled creek, <br> And the soil made glad by the welcome rain <br>Waiting the plough. If peace ye seek, <br> Come back, come back to my arms again. <br> <br>‘I that am old have seen long since <br> Ruin of palaces made with hands <br>For the soldier-king and the priest and prince <br> Whose cities crumble in desert sands. <br>But still the furrow in many a clime <br> Yields softly under the ploughman’s feet; <br>Still there is seeding and harvest time, <br> And the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. <br> <br>‘Where is Persepolis? Ask the Wind <br> That once the tresses of Thais kissed. <br>A stone or two you may haply find <br> Where Night and the Desert keep their tryst. <br>But the broken goblet is cast away, <br> And to seek for the lights that are lost is vain. <br>The city passes; the green fields stay— <br> Come back, come back to my arms again. <br> <br>‘The works of man are but little worth; <br> For a time they stand, for a space endure; <br>But turn once more to your mother—Earth, <br> My gifts are gracious, my works are sure. <br>Green shoot of herbage for growing herd, <br> And blossoming promise of fruitage sweet, <br>These shall not fail, if ye heed my word, <br> Nor the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. <br> <br>‘Would ye fashion a nation, whole and true, <br> Goodly-proportioned, sound at core? <br>Then this, my sons, ye must surely do— <br> Give city less, and country more. <br>Would ye rear a race to hold this land <br> From foemen steering across the main? <br>Then, children, listen and understand— <br> Come back, come back to my arms again. <br> <br>‘Your coastwise cities are passing fair— <br> Jetty and warehouse and banking-hall, <br>Tower and dome and statued square— <br> But who is to guard when the blow shall fall? <br>The men who can shoot and ride are found <br> Not where the clerks and the shopmen meet, <br>But out, where the reaper hears the sound <br> Of the wind that croons in the ripening wheat. <br> <br>‘Ye know, who have long since left the loam <br> For a city job in some crowded works, <br>That sorrow abides in the straitened home, <br> And Death in the stifling factory lurks. <br>And some, who are out of a job, must sleep <br> On a city bench in the driving rain. <br>Of happier days are ye dreaming deep? <br> Come back, come back to my arms again. <br> <br>‘There in the city, by jungle law, <br> Each fights for his meat till set of sun. <br>By the deadliest fang and the sharpest claw <br> The right to the largest share is won. <br>But here there is neither strife nor guile, <br> The brazen robber nor smooth-tongued cheat. <br>Your gold is safe—where the harvests smile, <br> And the wind still croons in the ripening wheat. <br> <br>‘I mind me once, in a sunlit land, <br> Lancer, Hussar, and fierce Uhlan <br>Came galloping in on every hand, <br> And poppied cornfields over-ran. <br>And many a sabre was stoutly plied, <br> And many a hero kissed the plain, <br>And many a hero’s mother cried, <br> “Come back, come back to my arms again!” <br> <br>‘But when no longer the trumpets pealed, <br> And the stricken land was at rest once more, <br>They found a peasant who sowed his field <br> Nor knew that France had been at war. <br>E’en so, instead of the strife and pain <br> I give you peace, with its blessing sweet. <br>Come back, come back to my arms again, <br> For the wind still croons in the ripening wheat.’ </div><div style="margin:10px 0"></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Frank+Dalby+Davison">Frank Dalby Davison</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=392464" data-title="The Earth-Mother de Frank Dalby Davison" data-description="COMETH a voice:—‘My children, hear; 
 From the crowded street and the close-packed mart 
I call you back with my message clear, 
 Back to my lap and my loving heart. 
Long have ye left me, journeying on 
 By range and river and grassy plain, 
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