The mother-age broods on her shining thought
That liveth, but whose life is hid. He comes
Her poet son, and lo you, he can see
The shining, and he takes it to his breast
And fashions for it wings that it may fly
And show its sweet light in the dusky world.

"Mother, O Mother of our dusk to-day,
What hast thou lived for bards to sing of thee?
Lapsed water cannot flow above its source;
'_The kid must browse_,'" they said, "'_where she is tied_.'"

Son of to-day, rise up, and answer them.
What! wilt thou let thy mother sit ashamed
And crownless?--Set the crown on her fair head:
She waited for thy birth, she cries to thee
"Thou art the man." He that hath ears to hear,
To him the mother cries "Thou art the man."

She murmurs, for thy mother's voice is low--
"Methought the men of war were even as gods
The old men of the ages. Now mine eyes
Retrieve the truth from ruined city walls
That buried it; from carved and curious homes
Full of rich garments and all goodly spoil,
Where having burned, battered, and wasted them,
They flung it. Give us, give us better gods
Than these that drink with blood upon their hands,
For I repent me that I worshipped them.
O that there might be yet a going up!