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Cheeks are pale, but hands are red, Guiltless blood may chance be shed, But ye must and will be fed,
Hunger and Cold !
God has plans man must not spoil,
We are told :
hideous lusts to please, Hunger and Cold !
Scatter ashes on thy head,
To Love's fold;
Hunger and Cold!
of the poor,
lands? In spite of close-drawn deed and fence, Like water, ’twixt your cheated hands, They slip into the graveyard's sands
And mock your ownership’s pretence. How shall you speak to urge your right,
Choked with that soil for which you lust ? The bit of clay, for whose delight You grasp, is mortgaged, too; Death might
Foreclose this very day in dust.
Fence as you please, this plain poor man,
Whose only fields are in his wit,
Owns you and fences as is fit.
By right of eminent domain ;
To feed his hungry heart and brain.
And what he plans, that you must do ;
And starves, the landlord over you
Feeding the clods your idlesse drains,
You make more green six feet of soil ; His fruitful word, like suns and rains, Partakes the seasons' bounteous pains,
And toils to lighten human toil.
Your lands, with force or cunning got,
Shrink to the measure of the grave; But Death himself abridges not The tenures of almighty thought, The titles of the wise and brave.
TO A PINE-TREE.
Far up on Katahdin thou towerest,
Purple-blue with the distance and vast;
To its fall leaning awful.
Thou singest and tossest thy branches ;
When whole mountains swoop valeward.
In the calm thou o'erstretchest the valleys
With thine arms, as if blessings imploring,
From the city beneath him.
Thou dost sing of wild billows in motion, Till he longs to be swung ’mid their booming In the tents of the Arabs of ocean,
Whose finned isles are their cattle.
For the gale snatches thee for his lyre,
With mad hand crashing melody frantic,
Whose arms stretch to his playmate.
The wild storm makes his lair in thy branches,
Preying thence on the continent under; Like a lion, crouched close on his haunches, There awaiteth his leap the fierce thunder,
Growling low with impatience. Spite of winter, thou keep’st thy green glory,
Lusty father of Titans past number ! The snow-flakes alone make thee hoary, Nestling close to thy branches in slumber,
And thee mantling with silence. Thou alone know'st the splendor of winter,
'Mid thy snow-silvered, hushed precipices, Hearing crags of green ice groan and splinter, And then plunge down the muffled abysses
In the quiet of midnight.
Gazing down on thy broad seas of forest,
From thy bleak throne to heaven.