An hour from dawn: The snow sweeps on As it swept with sleet last night: The Earth around Breathes never a sound, Wrapped in its shroud of white.
A waked cock crows Under the snows; Then silence.--After while The sky grows blue, And a star looks through With a kind o' bitter smile.
A whining dog; An axe on a log, And a muffled voice that calls: A cow's long low; Then footsteps slow Stamping into the stalls.
A bed of straw Where the wind blows raw Through cracks of the stable door: A child's small cry, A voice nearby, That says, "One mouth the more."
A different note In a man's rough throat As he turns at an entering tread-- Satyrs! see! "My woman--she Was brought last night to bed!"
A cry of "Halt!"-- "Ach! ich bin kalt!" "A spy!"--"No."--"That is clear! There's a good shake-down I' the jail in town-- For her!"--And then, "My orders here."
A shot, sharp-rolled As the clouds unfold: A scream; and a cry forlorn.... Clothed red with fire, Like the Heart's Desire, Look down the Christmas Morn.
The babe with light Is haloed bright, And it is Christmas Day: A cry of woe; Then footsteps slow, And the wild guns, far away.
Imperial Madness, will of hand, Builds vast an altar here, and rears Before the world, on godly land, A Moloch form of blood and tears.
And far as eye can see, behold, Priests plunge into its brazen arms Men, that its iron maw of mold Mangles, returning horrible forms.
Its Priests are armies, moving slow, And crowned like kings, in human-guise: And theirs it is to make it flow-- The crimson stream of sacrifice.
The Season speaks this year of life Confusing words of strife, Suggesting weeds instead of fruits and flowers In all Earth's bowers.
With heart of Jael, face of Ruth, She goes her way uncouth Through hills and fields, where fog and sunset seem Wild smoke and steam.
Around her, spotted as a leopard skin, She draws her cloak of whin, And through the dark hills sweeps dusk's last red glare Wild on her hair.
Her hands drip leaves, like blood, and burn With frost; her moony urn She lifts, where Death, 'mid driving stress and storm, Rears his gaunt form.
And all night long she seems to say "Come forth, my Winds, and slay!--" And everywhere is heard the wailing cry Of dreams that die.