Poem By George Sterling

Slowly among the wounded and the slain
The gleaners take the harvest of the kings,
But harvest-song no joyous maiden sings,
And crimson fingers lift a crimson grain.
Where darkness and the powers of darkness reign,
They bend above unutterable things,
As far away the restless searchlight swings
Its ghastly ray along the burdened plain.

Well seems it that they wear a cross of red,
But better seems it that this earth should bear
That blazon in the concourse of the stars,
(Ere the Night conquer and the sun fall dead)
And 'mid dark Signs and warring heavens glare,
Disastrous, with the bloody light of Mars.

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Other poems of GEORGE STERLING

As It Was In The Beginning

The royal word goes forth, and armies do
The work of devils. Agony and waste
Are on the world, and the grim legions haste

A Compact?

Far up the mountain-side today
The slopes are baked and hot;
I find no shade upon my way,
And water-springs are not.

A Winter Dawn

Untouched by crimson or by gold,
Its pure and fleeting marble rose
Beyond the wall of eastern snows —
Ethereal, Pentelic, cold.

At Midnight

Cast round me now your arms' cool wreath of white
Forget the day's far wakening, and lie
More close! Without, the weary world goes by,

Art And Life

The children of the flesh of men,
They pass from night to night;
They weep and laugh and labor, then
Are lost to human sight.